


Up, Up, Up

by blueiben



Series: Into the Blue [2]
Category: Batfamily - Fandom, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth - Freeform, Bruce Wayne - Freeform, DC comics - Freeform, Jason Todd - Freeform, Protective Bruce Wayne, Sort Of, baby jay, batdad is dad-ing, batfamily, brief selina kyle, dc, i'm kinda rewriting jason's origin, jason is son-ing without knowing it, some foul language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-06-07 10:11:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 57,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15216896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueiben/pseuds/blueiben
Summary: Second part of my Jason Todd origin story.





	1. Pinpricks

JASON

Thursday

Day four in the Manor

 

 _This place is like a different world_ , Jason thinks, feeling the smooth wall beneath his fingers. He’s silently moving towards the kitchen and he’s absentmindedly tracing along the wall, feeling various bumps and cracks with his fingertips. Time in Park Row with the lack of a steady schedule was painfully slow, making the days long and the nights even longer while time in the Manor by comparison was smoothly flowing like a river. Still slow, but not excruciating.

Jason thought the Manor like an island sealed in a bubble and separated from Gotham by an ocean that washed away the filth that seeped out of the dirty alleys and crime-infested streets. Wayne Manor existed as an odd safe haven, a rare flower among the asphalt.

Jason still found the sanctuary eerie, despite its comfort. It was too quiet, lacking the familiar sounds of people, traffic, police sirens, bar fights and the occasional gun shots. It was unsettling and kept him on edge constantly. Of course, it didn’t help that the two who lived here never seemed to make a sound either, with their ninja-ing around and all. At this pace, he’d die of a cardiac arrest they'd give him before turning fifteen. Unless he’s murdered.

Jason tip-toes the last feet to the kitchen door and peeks in to find it empty. Feeling a small rush of luck and relief, he sneaks over to the fridge and grabs various items, following his usual pattern of granola bars and pre-packaged sandwiches. The gala’s tomorrow so by Jason’s estimations, he’d be leaving tonight or maybe tomorrow morning depending on how guilty they feel. He’s bound to get kicked out soon so that good ole’ Brucie could go back to that sweet party life and the butler could hustle and bustle about without hindrances.

Jason had planned to wrap up his things and exit quietly that morning if the butler hadn’t stopped by yesterday after dinner and insisted that Jason had to throw away his food storage due to “a foul smell”. Jason wanted to argue that it was _his_ food and throwing it away was a waste – but he didn’t. It smelled pretty bad and started to make Jason nauseous. (It wasn’t a problem on the rooftop, but maybe that was because of helpful wind, other city smells and it wasn’t cramped up in a closed room.)

Begrudgingly, Jason agreed to throw everything away (to avoid attracting ants, the butler had said), so a part of the evening was spent taking out the trash, something the butler insisted on helping with, which ruined Jason’s spur-of-the-moment emergency plan of sorting out the still edible from the rotten he could hide somewhere outside and pick up before he was sent packing. 

“If you are hungry, Master Jason, I’d be more than delighted to make you something.”

Startled, Jason yelps and drops the granola bars to the linoleum floor. Slowly he turns to see the butler standing in the doorway, amused and with one eyebrow cocked.

“You certainly have an affinity for Master Bruce’s protein and granola bars.”

“I thought you were busy,” Jason mumbles. He can feel his ears getting red and he hates it, so he bends down to pick up the granola bars as slowly as he can before putting them back into the fridge.

“Master Bruce is doing an errand today, and even though I have my fair share of organizing to do, attending to guests staying in the Manor are my number one priority,” the butler smiles.

Jason closes the fridge and as Alfred moves closer between the kitchen island and the stove, Jason moves on the opposite side, making sure the island stays between.

“I don’t want anything,” Jason says stiffly. A horrible, blatant lie and they both knew it.

“I see. Well, I think I shall make something for when Master Bruce returns. A light lunch would be suitable. How about some creamy lemon chicken pasta? Or scrambled eggs and bacon, or maybe salmon and avocado wraps? What do you think?”

Jason pretends to think of something else than how all of the dishes mentioned didn’t make his mouth water and how all three sounded amazing.

These past few days Jason had been served meal after meal, and there was no doubt in his mind that the butler was an excellent chef, so no matter he picked it would be delicious. But Jason doesn’t want to pick. He’ll sound spoiled and - and what if he chooses the wrong thing? Wraps with salmon and avocado sounded demanding while creamy lemon chicken pasta sounded more like dinner-food than lunch-food.

“Maybe… maybe scrambled eggs and bacon would be nice…?” Jason says carefully. “Excellent choice, Master Jason,” the older man beams and claps his hands together. “Perhaps you would be so kind to keep me company while I cook? I do miss talking to someone while I prepare food.”

Maybe it’s just his way of saying that Jason’s not allowed out of sight or maybe he really wants the company. Either way, Jason doesn’t refuse so he takes a seat at the island while Mr. Pennyworth finds ingredients. Soon enough Jason’s leaning forward on the island, resting his cheek on his crossed arms on the counter, mindlessly listening to the butler chatting about everything and nothing mixing with the familiar sounds of bacon being fried and utensils being used.

Jason closes his eyes and thinks about the times Catherine used to cook and hum along to songs on the radio. She would almost dance back and forth between him, the stove and the fridge, swaying along with the music, bathed in the few beams of sunshine the kitchen window let through. Her hair long and shiny, her lips wide in a smile and exuding a joy Jason rarely felt from her.

“I have a surprise, Jason,” she teased, hiding something behind her back. Jason perked up and mirrored her glee expression.

“What is it?”

“You have to guess!” she sang. Jason hopped down from his chair and tried to reach behind her back to snatch whatever she was keeping hidden.

“Aw, are you so happy you’re hugging me?” she giggled and put one hand on his curls.

“No! I’m – ngh – trying to reach and – _you’re cheating, cheater_!” Jason stepped back, folded his arms and pouted.

“What? Me, cheating? I’d never! My arms are just longer than yours,” Catherine grinned and pinched his cheek. “If I see that frown turn upside-down, I’ll show you what I have?”

“Okay,” Jason giggled and poked his tongue at her, satisfied with his ploy.

“Ta-da!” From behind her, a blue pack of cookies emerged. Jason gasped dramatically.

“You – you bought me _Oreos_?!” He snapped the pack out of her hands and studied it as if it was sacred. “Oh, I’m sorry for calling you a cheater, Mommy! I didn’t mean it!” Jason cried, wrapped his arms around her again as high as he could reach, hugging her for real this time. Catherine laughed again and hoisted him up on her hip. “It’s okay, you little munchkin. But no cookies until after you’ve eaten dinner, ok?”

“Okay!” She pecked his cheek.

“Master Jason?”

Someone shakes him and Jason jerks awake, grabbing the island counter before he falls backwards. Mr. Pennyworth stands next to him, hand hovering not far from Jason’s shoulder.

“…The food is ready, Master Jason.”

“Mhm, yup, yeah,” Jason nods and turns as he rubs his eyes and wipes his cheeks. The butler is polite enough to pretend like he doesn’t notice. Jason wishes he could run away, hide somewhere in a corner of the library. Somewhere dark and safe, where no one will think to look, where he can be invisible for a little bit.

Instead, he and Mr. Pennyworth are sitting down at the kitchen table in what Jason thinks is a suffocating silence, each with their own plate of scrambled eggs and bacon strips. A modest two for him and four for Jason. The ‘Waiting for Bruce before we eat a light lunch’ plan was chucked out the window apparently, as the cook had helped himself to a serving.

Jason reluctantly did the same. He was hungry, still. Food over pride. It’s an unspoken ritual by now; Jason waits until the other eats before he tries a bite himself and Mr. Pennyworth takes the first bite, both bacon and eggs. Jason follows. It leaves an oddly bitter taste in his mouth, knowing he won’t be here after tomorrow and eat this good of food ever again. The butler resumes his chatting again, and Jason really doesn’t mind listening to the older man while eating.

The butler takes his last bite of scrambled eggs and folds his hands waiting for Jason to finish.

“Was the food satisfactory?” he asks.

Jason nods while chewing his last strip of salty, crispy bacon. “It’s delicious,” he says after swallowing. “I’ve never eaten bacon this delicious.” 

Mr. Pennyworth chuckles. “You are flattering me, Master Jason.”

“Can I ask you something?” Jason pushes the last piece of scrambled eggs back and forth with his fork. Of course, the butler responds.

“Am I leaving tonight or tomorrow? Because If I can, I wanna do it now so that I can settle down somewhere before dark.” Jason regrets asking almost immediately, as the older man’s jaws clenches and he sighs heavily.

Mr. Pennyworth collects his plate and cutlery and walks over to the sink to rinse them. Jason clenches the fork and doesn’t look up from his plate. He takes a breath and turns to face him. “I promise to clean up after me, the bedroom and everything, and Mr. Pennyworth, I swear I won’t take anything again.”

Alfred says nothing and continues to wash the plate with his back turned. Jason imagines a deep frown on the older man. He continues, “The things I took the last time – I’ve already put them back so I’m not – I don’t have anything of yours anymore.” Ok, _that_ one was a half-truth; he’d sold the old tiepins the first hours he’d been back in Gotham to get rid of them as fast as possible. He probably would have sold the ring, the watch, the necklace and the cufflinks too if he hadn’t gotten paranoid and followed his guts; an icky feeling had told him GCPD or maybeMr. Wayne himself would get him so he just went into hiding instead. Ironically, Batman was the one who found him. Mr. Pennyworth turns off the water and places dried cutlery and plate back to their respective places in the cabinets.

Jason doesn’t look up, even when Mr. Pennyworth returns to the table and sits back down. “Master Jason,” he says calmly, “I must thank you for your honesty and your dedication to being such a wonderful and polite guest, but believe me when I say that under no circumstances – absolutely none – are you to go back to live the way you used to. You are going to live in this house for one month, and then we – you and me and Master Bruce – will find out what the next step will be, together. And I swear to you, on my name and reputation as well on Master Bruce’s: it will _not_ be for you to return to sleeping in cardboard boxes. That chapter of your life is _over_ , and it will never happen again. Now if you excuse me, I have business to attend to regarding tomorrow’s catering. I am sorry to say I must ask you to wash your dishes when you are finished.” Then he gets up and leaves.

Jason feels his eyes burn, staring at his hands before he picks apart the skin next to his nails until he starts bleeding twice. Then he does his dishes and places them in the cabinets. When done, he goes back to the bedroom, picks up his old disc player and one of his CDs (Rumours by Fleetwood Mac) and hides in the attic. Curled up and hidden away in an old wardrobe with old coats, tears begin to drip down his cheeks, although he doesn’t know why.

_You and me and Master Bruce._

It’s not until very later Jason jerks awake for the second time that day. He rubs his eyes in the dark space of the wardrobe with musty fur coats and regrets a little that he didn’t pack his things up and left quietly before sunrise.

But it felt good to get some sleep. He has to pee, so he listens for any sign of anyone nearby before crawling out and sneaking back to the bedroom where he tosses the disc player and headset on the bed. 21:24 glows in big red numbers on the digital clock on the nightstand. Jason closes and locks the bathroom door and rests his head against it for a second.

“If nothing happens before midnight, I’ll pack my bags and leave quietly,” he promises himself. “Things will go back to normal and everyone will be happy again.”

Five minutes later, his head hits the pillow that never stopped being perfectly fluffed. He closes his eyes and wraps his elbow over his face, to shut the world off while he thinks about how he’s gonna get back to Gotham this time. Alarm systems and distance aside – walking around with loot in Gotham at night? He might as well shout obscenities at grown drunkards and waft thousands of dollars in cash around in the open.

Fuck.

He has to be smart about this. If not, he _will_ get jumped and in worst case scenario end up dead. He could fight one on one or maybe one against two, but he didn’t have a chance if there were three or more and then he wouldn’t even be able to get away while carrying his shit.

Maybe… maybe if he took things slow. There wasn’t any rush to be in Park Row tonight, was there? He could potentially crash somewhere else for one night, maybe in Otisburg or in the outskirts of Burnley – but the risk about being homeless outside of Park Row was cops were more likely to get involved.

 _We’re gonna help you_ , they would say, but it was really just to chase you away and making sure homeless were kept quarantined in Park Row like a pack of cattle.

God fucking damn it.

Even with all the difficulties and stress of going back, he couldn’t stay here anymore. The silence was maddening and he didn’t know what the pair wanted from him, making them the worst type of threats, the ones he couldn’t run from or bribe or work for – he was just _stuck_ here at their mercy. There was honestly nothing that prevented either of them from calling social services and hand him over or the police and press charges for thievery or waiting until he was asleep and slit his throat before selling his organs on the black market. He needs to get out before that happens.

Two sharp knocks interrupt him. Jason jumps out of bed, straightening his shirt and presses down his hair.

“Jason?” Mr. Wayne's voice asks.

“I’m here.” A beat.

“…Can I come in?”

 _It’s your house,_ Jason thinks. _Weirdo_. “Yes,” he says.

Mr. Wayne opens the door and smiles, holding what looks like a - a fucking _body bag_ in his hand and Jason’s fight or flight response kicks off – until he realizes it’s not a body bag. It’s one of those bags that protected and contained fancy clothing to avoid from the fabric being wrinkled and messed up. Jason had seen this on TV, on reality shows, where rich people would walk around with their dress or suit or whatever hanging from their arm and cried that their party was ruined when the clothes were wrinkled. It made Jason laugh.

“What’s that?” Jason nods to the mystery item. Mr. Wayne laid it out on the foot of the bed, and smiled, a hand on his hips and satisfied with himself. “Well, since the gala is tomorrow, I thought that you might want something to wear.” Jason’s eyes go wide. _No way_.

“If you want to, of course,” Mr. Wayne adds hastily, and pulls back a zipper to reveal a crisp, clean suit for someone Jason’s size. It had a snow-white shirt and handkerchief stuffed in the pocket of a deep blue jacket with matching pants. The tie was a soft, golden champagne.  

“I, uh, I’m not sure if it’s your taste, but the owner said this one was very popular right now. I have to admit I’m not sure I got the measurements right. If it’s the wrong size I can go back tomorrow morning to fix it. Try it on,” he says.

Jason looks from Mr. Wayne to the suit and back to Mr. Wayne again. Reluctantly, he accepts it and holds it gently, like a glass figure, as he carries it to the bathroom to change.

When he comes out, Mr. Wayne is accompanied by Mr. Pennyworth and upon seeing Jason, both break out in smiles. Jason knows his ears are getting red again, feeling like a monkey on display and they were the zoo visitors, poking him with a stick to do stuff.

“…The sleeves are a little long,” he says quietly, fiddling with the tie he held in his hand. The sleeves weren’t really long. The silence was just uncomfortable.

“It suits you, Master Jason,” Mr. Pennyworth smiles. “No pun intended,” he adds with a wink. The butler's hands are on his shoulders, here and there, straightening the jacket out and seeing if it's too wide or too tight. 

Mr. Wayne pulls a shoe box out of a bag that wasn’t there before, and whips out a shiny pair of black dress shoes. “Try these on,” he says and places them in front of Jason’s feet. Jason slips the shoes on and ties the laces. Wiggles his toes. They’re a bit too big and broad. He doesn’t mind, he can probably grow into them. “Do they fit?” Mr. Wayne asks. Jason nods. Mr. Pennyworth backs away. Mr. Wayne takes his place and it takes everything in Jason’s power to not step back into the bathroom and lock the door and just wait until they leave.

“I’ll just tie your tie, is that all right with you?” Jason clenches his jaws and nods, tilting his head up and tries to not think of Mr. Wayne tightening the knot and crushing his windpipe. He counts seconds and when he reaches sixteen, the large hands are off of him.

“Come on then,” he encourages. “Take a look in the mirror.” He gestures to the full body mirror. Jason walks to it, half expecting to see himself in a suit that is too big and baggy for his awkward, skinny body with sleeves that barely hides his bony hands accompanied by a tired and sad face with even more tired and sad eyes topped by hair that sticks out everywhere.

He doesn’t. His lips part in a quiet gasp at the sight of seeing someone he doesn’t know. Looking back at him is a boy that looks like he’s sleeps a little more, maybe gained a pound or maybe two and doesn't look like corpse. It’s a boy that looks like he has a normal life, like he could fit in somewhere. Someone who’s not a street rat.

He’s stylish and proper, like he’s used to wearing expensive clothing - which makes him appear older and more confident. The white and the blue complement each other, as well as Jason’s eyes and skin tone, while the champagne coloured tie and messy curls adds a playful gleam to it all, breaking from an appearance that would be stiff and monotone otherwise. The shoes are discreet but still eye-catching beneath the hem of the pants. They make him a little taller as well. He straightens his back as much as he can and huffs his chest a little bit to look bigger. With a pang of melancholy, jealousy and a small sense of pride, he realizes that the boy in the mirror doesn’t look scared or weak or like he despises himself. He likes it. 

“What do you think, Master Jason?” Mr. Pennyworth pops up behind his left shoulder, brushing over his shoulders again, fidgeting with whatever fold of fabric he could find.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Jason admits.

Mr. Wayne too walks up behind Jason and stands behind his right shoulder. Both are so close Jason can feel their warmth, and somehow he doesn’t mind that either. “If you want, I could go back to the tailor tomorrow and get another one.”

Jason shakes his head. “No, no, Mr. Wayne. It’s, uhm…amazing. Thank you.” Looking in the mirror again, it strikes him that they look like an old fashioned family photo. He dismisses it.

_Don’t be stupid._


	2. Clueless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Bruce have a chat

BRUCE & ALFRED

Thursday night

 

“I don’t think he’s ever had anything but sweatshirts and t-shirts before, Alfred. You saw his reaction.”

“I did, sir.”

Bruce sighs. “I’m not looking forward to tomorrow. He’ll feel like an outsider, more than he already does and everyone will whisper.”

“Sadly, I do believe so too, sir. I am nervous on young Master Jason’s behalf. But if it is any comfort, I think he will handle himself better than either of us expects him to.”

“He’ll need a haircut.”

They’re walking down to the Cave, Alfred with a cup of steaming black coffee in his hand.

Bruce sits down in his chair and types in the password to the Batcomputer while Alfred puts the cup next to him.

“Have you found anything about young Jason in the system?” Alfred asks. Bruce shakes his head. He had searched the name ‘Jason Todd’ multiple times, but there was nothing. No hospital records, police records, school records, addresses. Of the hits he got on the surname ‘Todd’, there were both men and women who he researched in an attempt to figure out if anyone was a relative, or maybe parent, based on background, age and likeness to Jason – but no one was a fitting match. Some were the wrong ethnicity, but since Jason seemed to be mixed it was hard to tell. Others were too old or too young to be the average aged parent and some came from completely different backgrounds than Jason and some hadn’t set foot in Park Row. Three didn’t even live in the city anymore and hadn’t for the past ten years.

“It’s like he came from nowhere,” Bruce sighs and stretches. “Just one of many kids like him.” The detective in him was frustrated by how he couldn’t fill out the blanks on Jason and complete the puzzle. He itched to sit down and interview Jason, dig out his story and background, although he is hindered by a combination of Alfred, Jason himself, his own conscience and knowing that Jason won’t answer any of his questions, eventually feel cornered and slip out of his fingers like sand. It would inevitably lead to Jason running away again and God knows if he’d get lucky enough to find Jason a second time.

Jason was smart, sharp and had good instincts. He wouldn’t go back to the same pattern. Or perhaps he would after a certain amount of time, but there was no way of knowing that for sure. There wouldn’t be any leads to follow up on.

“If you forgive me sir, I must interrupt you before you dive further into your work. I feel obligated to share something Jason said this morning when he was following up on his habit of sneaking food from the fridge. After catching him in the act, we ate a lunch together, and do you know what he asked me?”

“I think I could guess.” Bruce braces himself.

 “He asked me if he was, and I quote: ‘Leaving tonight or tomorrow’. It seems he is under the impression of the idea that we would toss him away like a toy before the gala.”

“Jesus.”

“He even promised me he would do chores before leaving, afraid that I would somehow punish him if he didn’t,” Alfred continues. “And I ought to inform you the items he stole the last time has now been returned, but I believe neither of us gives a damn about old jewelry.”

“No, I don’t,” Bruce says flatly.

“So tell me, Master Bruce, do you have any clue as to _why_ Master Jason would think something so preposterous?”

Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I have been distant, yes, but it’s a fragile situation. If handled wrongly he will run away. And it is not an excuse, I know. He’s…”

_...different than Dick._

“He’s been through a lot. I’m sure you can imagine.” Alfred’s mouth turned into a tight line, thinking of what kids were put through and exposed to in Park Row. He’d heard and witnessed too many horror stories, too many victims and too many survivors that had suffered at the hands of Gotham’s cruelty. “I’m trying but I –“ Bruce cuts himself off. “I don’t know. I just think he needs time to adjust.” Alfred sighs and puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “I know, and I understand time is key. I apologize, Master Bruce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, but to make up for it, the next one will probably be the longest I've ever written, lmao. I... really don't know what to do with Bruce and Alfred when I'm telling it from Bruce's POV except for talking about Jason. It'll come around, I think and hope.


	3. The Dangerous Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dreaded Gala has finally arrived.

JASON

Friday

Day five in the Manor

 

The ballroom was the largest room Jason had seen in the Manor. Interior-wise it was a more classically decorated than any of the other rooms, in a rococo style with golden _rocaille_ ornaments along the walls and from the white ceiling several large chandeliers were hanging and brightening up every corner with golden warmth, reflecting off of the _rocaille_ , champagne glasses and jewelry. On the left side from the entrance was a stage, currently occupied by an orchestra following the notions of a maestro while the seating area was on the right, riddled with circular tables that roomed six on each. On the opposite wall are the doors to a balcony. In total there was about 200 guests, which luckily is a lot less than what Jason had imagined in the hours before, back when he was debating on retreating to his spot in the attic in the wardrobe and stay there all night over being here.

Hiding in plain sight had at first seemed to be the best plan; to remain as unnoticed and anonymous as possible. Standing between the entrance to the ballroom and the bar was standing between point A and point B, and everyone ignored whatever was between. Of course he didn’t remain nearly as invisible as he hoped. During Mr. Wayne's opening speech, Jason had snuck in as quietly as he could – but someone had spotted him and pointed not-so-discretely while whispering to the people on their table and from there it had spread like a wildfire. During the next speeches, the dinner and the dessert, every guest in the room had side-eyed him or snickered at him. Jason had been caught like a deer in headlights. And he froze, like he always did.  

This wasn't the streets. This couldn't be solved with flashing a knife.

A part of him was curious as to how they knew he didn’t belong and what they were whispering about him, what hushed lies they told themselves and each other. Maybe it was the way he kept loosening his collar from his throat or maybe the way he scowled at everything and everyone. Maybe they could smell the Park Row on him.

A little later, the steady flow of drinks and booze are starting to kick in, making the guests a little louder and a bit more carefree, making the atmosphere a little less stiff and formal. Jason takes a sip of his own glass of water as he observes Gotham’s finest, fattest and richest as they danced and mingled on the dance floor, already having tossed away the toy. It had had its fifteen minutes of fame, now it’s used and nothing exciting about it anymore. Boring.

The orchestra on stage is playing a smooth, classical piece that makes everyone sway along while buzzing amongst each other about God knows what. The overwhelming stench of alcohol mixed with the pungent perfumes and colognes belonging to some of the older guests had given Jason a headache a long time ago. He shifts, still feeling the occasional judgmental pair of eyes on him.

He’d been anxious and fidgety before the gala started, to the point where Mr. Pennyworth had to ask him three times to stop folding his tie between his fingers so it wouldn't wrinkle.

Mr. Wayne had helped him tie his tie for the second time (although Jason would have preferred it off) and left to finesse final details and greet the guests, saying Jason didn’t need to be there for that if he didn’t want to.

Jason didn’t, so he sorted through his boxes painfully slowly, before he took the longest possible way to the ballroom. To test the mental map he’d made of the Manor during Bruce’s house tour, he opened door after door to see if he managed to guess what the room was. He successfully guessed all of them.

When he finally arrived to the ballroom, Mr. Wayne was holding a speech about an organization or cause or something – Jason didn’t pay attention. The billionaire had then approached him and said he had gotten Jason a seat on his table. Jason preferred standing on the outside and not among the crowd of strangers. He politely refused Mr. Wayne, and luckily he didn't ask more than once, so Jason stayed in his corner. The only times Jason left was to snatch a sandwich or two from the trays of unsuspecting waiters. 

He brushes his hand through the shorter hair he’d gotten a that morning by Mr. Pennyworth's hands. The butler had to coax him into sitting down and allow sharp scissors to snip-snip-snip away millimeters from his ears. Even though Jason had a mirror he used to keep an eye on the scissors, he had to fight to not grab the butler's wrist and force the weapon away from him.

Feeling the familiar and comforting handle of his own knife in his pocket helped. He was carrying it around with him at all times, for security, even now.

Jason catches the eye of an older woman with her husband in front of the bar, waiting for their drinks. She gives him the look he’s always seen, the look that measures him up and down until she decides he’s not important and he becomes the human equivalent to trash. She nudges her husband, whispers something and then they look at him together before the both turn away.

Jason glances at the couple. He notices a diamond ring on her finger, pearl earrings and a red flower broach on her chest. If he sold to the right seller he’d get around 9000$ for the jewelry, even though they were probably worth twice as much (things like diamonds and high-quality jewelry lost some value as they were more searched after by the police, especially when they were sold on a street level.) Her husband had a watch around his wrist to maybe 7000$ and was wearing a suit that cost God knows how much. Expensive clothing had never interested him. It was difficult to steal and difficult to sell.

Jason’s own measly savings of 1100$ he had scraped together through for years and years felt like pathetic in comparison to how much money this couple was wearing on them. The woman glances again, meets his eyes and purses her lips. Jason takes the last sip of his water. _At least I_ earned _my money,_ he thinks. He puts the glass on the bar countertop as he walks past her and gives her the finger.

She gasps, he ignores it and makes his way through the crowd to lose her and her condescending bullshit. He’s had enough. In the streets, they would’ve been in a short and simple fist fight by now. Not over what anyone was wearing of course - more like they’d attack each other over a half-empty bottle of clean water or maybe a blanket without holes in it. Short and simple. Nothing but the feral, animalistic instinct to survive and the desperation to do everything you could do to cling to you miserable life.

Sneaking through the crowd he drinks in every detail, every face around him. It was a useful and old habit, to see who noticed him in crowds and who wasn’t. Most people thought it was the people looking at you one should be wary of but in truth it was the opposite. People glancing around and pretending not to see you were mapping out their surroundings and assessing possible threats like everyone did meaning they weren’t dangerous, while people who didn’t look at you were hiding their face, planning to strike when you were inattentive.

_Necklace, 2000$._

_Diamond earrings, 12 000$._

He bumps into someone. He doesn’t look.

_Cufflinks, 4700$._

A man in a black suit laughs as he drunkenly dances with his husband and they almost trip into another couple.

The smell of alcohol, cologne and sweat mixes and Jason’s headache begins to throb.

_Watch, 6300$._

_Tiara, 9900$._

_Bracelets, 7500$._

A cackle to his left.

It itches in his fingers to strip these people of everything. To give them humiliation and anxiety and terror, to force them to bathe in a fracture of the hell his people lived.

The maestro reaches the crescendo.

 _Diamonds, sparkling all around him; priceless_. _The ticket to a life worth living._

The musical piece ends. Everyone stops and claps. Jason finally stumbles out, away from the crowd and out balcony doors, gasping his first breath of cool evening air. It caresses his heated skin and makes his erratic heartbeat calm down. Leaning on the banister he clenches and unclenches his fist a few times. He could wrap over half the people in there around his finger if he wanted to, make them dance to his tune like the pied piper. Buzzed people were easy to trick, even easier when they least expected it and this crowd had probably never suffered as much as an April fool’s joke in their life. The orchestra begins a new song.

He rolls his shoulders to lose some tension and wishes he had a cigarette to hold between his fingers. He’d smoked the last one he had three days ago after crawling out a window in the attic and finding, from the window, was a good way to climb up to the roof. He carved “Jason Todd was here” in the windowsill. Another mark he would leave after he was gone. Even though he wanted nothing more than to disappear from this hellhouse, he still felt a thrill leaving a mark on this place, that he was here and he walked these halls. That he existed. 

In the distance, across the river, he sees Gotham’s lights like a flashlight in the darkness.

If he was back in Park Row, he’d be eating dinner somewhere in an alley or on a new rooftop, listening to police sirens and shouting from the people around him.

At this moment he didn’t know what was worse; searching for scraps among garbage or being here, witnessing the cocktail of greed, vanity and pride that made up Gotham’s richest up close and at its ugliest. In Park Row, he blended in perfectly with the people there and here… No matter how much he dressed up to look like them, he would _never_ be one of them, and they knew. Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth knew as well, even though they seemed to like to pretend.

Jason closes his eyes and listens to the orchestra, muted behind glass doors behind him. He wishes he knew anything about classical music. It surprised him, how soothing he found it.

Had mom ever owned anything even remotely expensive? He tries to remember if she ever dressed in a pretty dress and heels or worn pearls and gone out a night and pretended to be someone else for a few hours. Jason always wanted to know about her life from before she got with Willis and pregnant with him, when she was a kid and teenager and her life in the early twenties but he’d never gotten a chance to talk to her about it.

Before she began doing pills he was too young to understand that she didn’t start existing at the same time as him and afterwards it was too late; he was consumed by the need to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies while she was high and sleeping 15 hours a day. He didn’t even know if she was born in Gotham, if she had parents here or what her maiden name was.

When he first became homeless, he’d play around with the thought of having a secret family in Gotham somewhere. Grandparents with an old haunted house and a sunny backyard with a hammock, a grill and a patio with chairs for everyone; uncles and aunts and cousins. The walls would be covered with old family photos, many of them would be Catherine as a kid with a missing tooth and scraped up knees, hair in pigtails and later in a bun for prom.

During late summer nights and BBQ evenings, everyone would sit around and tell each other stories they all had heard hundreds of times before. The adults would pinch the cheeks of the kids, who would fake being tired early so that they could go the attic and drink energy drinks they weren’t allowed to touch and whisper ghost stories in the dark.

He imagined his non-existent grandparents owning dogs too, at least two, chasing each other and barking at the traffic and strangers passing by until non-existent grandpa would shush them. Or maybe cats, demanding to be pet whenever they could.

He played with the thought of his non-existent grandmother being a garden person, always fixing the garden and tending to plants and when nothing needed tending to, she would plant something new to make her garden grow big. It would turn into a maze of bushes and plants Jason and his non-existent cousins could play hide and seek in. On occasion, non-existent aunt would take him to the side and say he looked just like his mother, that she too had freckles and the same curls as him, that she too liked books and had a habit of biting her lips and her ears turned red.

What a childish and stupid fantasy. It didn’t take more than two or three days for him to realize that there wasn’t anyone in Gotham that that gave a shit about another orphan boy sleeping on newspapers and gnawing on the bones of chicken wings for dinner. He was just a face in the crowd, another one who could steal your food and eventually be the death of you.

Someone opens the balcony door with a creak behind him. Jason straightens up on instinct, and fixates his gaze on Gotham and tries to not spin around and glare whoever had joined him and assess whether or not he should flee. The someone is a woman, he notices, based on the gentle scent of perfume and the sound of stiletto heels clacking on the stone.

“The view isn’t bad but it’s better from my apartment,” she says. The woman leans over the banister like Jason did earlier. “Although I’d sacrifice it to have a place like this, easily.” He finally gives in and turns to look at her. She has long black hair, tied in a knot at the nape of her neck with a few locks falling around her face, framing it. The first thing about her face Jason notices is that her facial features are striking. The second thing is her eyes, that catches him staring. They are a beautiful shade of green, illuminated by the golden light shining from the windows behind them. He looks away from her, while her gaze lingers.

After a few seconds she chuckles and straightens up.

“You’re the new bird,” she says.

“What?” Jason replies, dumbfounded. Was this rich-people slang?

“The new toy, the new project, whatever you want to call it. He mentioned you once.”

“I’m no one’s _toy_ or _project_ ,” he snarls and turns to the woman, who’s amused by the sight.

“You’re from Park Row, right? I can tell by your accent,” she smiles. “The way you linger on the vowels gives you away.”

Jason snaps his jaw shut. 

“It takes one to know one, although I lost my accent a long time ago,” she smiles before he gets the chance to ask.

“Oh,” is all Jason can think of in response. He didn’t know there were people here tonight that also came from Park Row. It makes him feel a little bit better instantly. He fiddles with a strand of his hair, wishing Mr. Pennyworth didn’t cut it. Sure, it looked cleaner but it was too short.

“You know Mr. Wayne, then?” he asks.

She laughs, flashing white teeth. “You could say I do.”

Lovers. Or ex-lovers, Jason concludes. No one answered a yes or no question like that unless there was something bigger underneath.

“You’re out of his league,” Jason snorts.

She laughs again and agrees, not asking how he came to that conclusion. Out of her clutch she pulls a small mirror and lipstick. As she applies it, Jason notices there’s something… _off_ about her precise movements, similar to the way Mr. Wayne moved. There’s a certain smoothness to her the way she carried herself, a quietness that exuded control and – if Jason didn’t know any better – discipline.

He glances at her arms, noticing the toned and firm muscles beneath her skin. As far as Jason knew, only yoga and martial arts could result in toned muscles and that sort of control. Maybe she and Mr. Wayne met at yoga, and locked eyes as they were doing the splits. Rich people flirting.

She puts her lipstick and mirror back in her clutch. “So, why are you lurking out here? Why aren’t you in there, pretending to have fun like everyone else?” She gestures to the door.

Jason shrugs in response. “Not really my thing.”

“Parties?”

“Obnoxious people.”

“Ah,” she nods. He likes that she doesn’t disagree or argue with him. The both stay quiet for a bit, gazing on the skyscrapers and city lights on the horizon.

Then Jason can’t keep it in anymore. “Does Mr. Wayne talk about me?”

“Hm?”

“You said he mentioned me.”

“Yes, he has. Only once though.”

Jason groans and rubs the bridge of his nose. If Mr. Wayne was going to toss around his name every time someone asked, it would only lead to trouble once Jason left the Manor and returned to the streets.

Hearsay and gossip travelled ridiculously fast among homeless and prostitutes in the alleys, all over Gotham. If the wrong people picked up Jason Todd, Park Row native, had connections to Gotham’s wealthiest… He’d be taken, only to be used either as a bargaining chip for blackmail or most likely just get jumped for the fuck of it. Many in Park Row were furious at Gotham’s comfortable and prosperous upper-class for abandoning them and letting them live among sewer and dirt, so killing Jason would be nothing more than a spiteful ‘fuck you’ to Mr. Wayne, and warning for others to not leave their own kind. They wouldn’t know his face, but it was always, always better to be safe than sorry.

“What, are you mad he talked about you?” The woman cocks an eyebrow.

“It’s just annoying, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Long story,” he dismisses.

She hums. “I can assure you he isn’t doing it out of malice. In fact, I’d say he’s fond of you.”

Jason snorts. “Sure,” he says sarcastically.

“He is,” she says, rubbing her upper arms.

“Are you cold?”

Jason unbuttons his jacket and puts it around her shoulders, thankful she bent down so that he could reach. “Oh my,” she smiles. “What a gentleman. Thank you.” She adjusts the jacket on her shoulders, making Jason almost wishing he hadn’t given to her. It’s way too small for a grown woman and it looks awkward. He still turns pink at her words and scratches his neck.

“It’s a still a bit too cold for being outside in a dress, even though we’re well into May.”

“Why did you come outside then?”

“I saw you walk out here and I decided to follow,” she smirks. “You piqued my curiosity. I had to see what he fussed about.”

The door opens again, and the two turn their heads to see Mr. Wayne stand in the doorway.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says to Jason. “Miss Kyle,” he nods politely to the woman. “Mr. Wayne,” she smirks back. Jason looks from Mr. Wayne to the woman and back, trying to not roll his eyes.

“What, you haven’t been looking for me?” the woman, Miss Kyle, asks innocently.

Mr. Wayne steps out on the balcony, ignoring her. “Are you having a good time?”

Jason shrugs unenthusiastically. He didn’t enjoy himself at all, but he's sure as hell not going to say it. Mr. Wayne closes the door behind him to give them quiet from the noise inside and says, “I need to talk to you about something.” His mouth is in a tight, grim line and his brows are furrowed.

“Do you mind?” he asks Miss Kyle.

“No, I don’t” she responds, making no sign to leave the balcony. In fact, she looked to settle where she stood as an audience member to the show in front of her. Mr. Wayne sighs and shakes his head slightly.

“Jason, I received a complaint earlier, from one of the guests. She told me you had insulted her by making an obscene gesture.”

“Oh, _really_?” Miss Kyle grins from Mr. Wayne to Jason with raised eyebrows, almost impressed. Jason shoves his hands in his pockets and clenches them until he feels his nails dig into his palms, trying to ignore the humiliation and fury suddenly bubbling beneath his skin.

 “Jason. Is it true?” Mr. Wayne asks. His voice is calm but there’s a grief in it, a disappointment, directed at him.

_Don’t say anything._

Jason keeps his mouth shut, fixating on a spot on the right of Mr. Wayne's knee and tries to not think about Mr. Wayne staring and talking down at him ( _shut up_ ), Miss Kyle that followed him ( _don’t_ ), Alfred snip-snip-snipping away with sharp scissors inches away from his ears, eyes and throat, the people inside- nay, the pigs- that laughed ( _at him?)_ and stared at him like an exotic object on display and this _goddamned_ house that was nothing but a pretty casket of isolation and suffocation that slowly drove him mad keeping him away from everything he’d ever known ( _shut up. Shut. Up._ )

 “Answer me, Jason.” Mr. Wayne's voice echoes somewhere far away and the collar is too tight again ( _shut up shut up shut up_ ) and when a hand touches his shoulder ( _don’t, don’t touch me_ ), something in him that had been curling in his gut the entire evening tips over and Jason smacks the hand away instinctively ( _shut up, shut UP_ ) because he can’t think of touching without thinking of bruises without thinking of Willis ( _shut up SHUT UP -_ )

He explodes.

“Fuck off with that bullshit! This wouldn’t be a problem in the first place if you’d just _leave me alone_ – I never asked for your help or your pity, I don’t need it! I don’t want it! And I’m not a project or a charity case for you to use or show off to these assholes so you can feel good about yourself, you bloated narcissistic son of a bitch!”

Before Mr. Wayne can raise his hand and before Jason can feel that anticipated burn on his cheek, he storms past the man.

A cellist in the orchestra has taken the stage, performing a beautiful solo. Everyone is dancing slowly, hugging and caressing the ones they love with closed eyes, not acknowledging him slithering between them. Jason notices, that on top of everything else, a tinge of jealousy. They’d never been hit. They didn’t flinch when someone taps their shoulder. They get to hug and touch and be with each other and not think about where the nearest exit is in case things turn for the worst. Why do they get a life free of that? Why do they get a life without starvation and begging and thinking they won’t live past tomorrow. 

Tears begin spilling on his cheeks as realization sinks in.

_What did I do? I just - I slapped him. I insulted him. The man who gave me clothes and free food and – and – this goddamn suit that probably cost thousands and thousands – oh god oh god oh god -_

Jason can’t think. He can’t breathe. He spots a lone table in the corner and heads straight for it, diving under when he’s close enough and uses the tablecloth to hide himself. His body numb, hands shaking. His chest hurts, feeling hollow and about to burst open at the same time while his head is about to split down the middle. His fingers somehow manage to untie his tie and unbutton the two top buttons of his shirt so that he can breathe but somehow he _still_ can’t - and he needs to think and plan how to get out after he’s not shaking or crying again, he needs to run and run and don’t stop but he just needs a minute, a second to collect himself to _breathe_ –

He bites down on the muscle of his thumb to choke down a sob.

The solo reaches its end. Everybody applauds.

He covers his ears and bends forward so his forehead touches the carpet.

Just a minute.

 

***

 

SELINA

Jason storms past him and disappears inside again before Bruce can get a word out.

“Jesus, Bruce,” Selina groans and shakes her head. She takes Jason’s jacket off of her shoulders and lets it hang over her crossed arms.

“Were you interrogating him for murder?”

“No, I- “ He cuts himself off. “I got to find him.” He turns away from Selina and his hands is on the handles, ready to open the doors.

“Bruce.” Selina puts a hand on his arm to hold him back. “Be _patient_ ,” she says sternly. “Give him some space.”

“Will you tell me how got in without an invitation?”

“Hmm,” she pretended to think hard. “No, but I think I can _show_ you.”

“Selina.”

“Bruce.”

“I’m serious.

“So am I. I wouldn’t mind staying the night.”

He sighs at her giggling and slips back into the ballroom, leaving her with nothing but the cool breeze and the distant presence of the Gotham City skyline. After a minute of absently gazing across the river and thinking briefly about the little birdie, she follows the two back inside to hear just the end of a round of applause from the guests. A cellist on stage takes a polite bow and returns to her seat, right before another musical piece begins playing, this time led on by the smooth playing of violins.

Just outside the entrance, she catches a glimpse of Bruce speaking to one of the security guards. Selina’s best guess is that they’ll notify Bruce if any kid tries to escape the Manor. _And oh – there he goes, off to search for the kid and let the butler know,_ Selina thinks with a sigh.

That is exactly how Bruce would react – which Jason would know. Alley kids were smart. Their lives depended on it. Selina remembers the very brief moment of horror on Jason’s face earlier while her pointer finger absentmindedly follows the edge of a clothing fold on the jacket he’d borrowed her. She had noticed there was something different about Bruce during their dinner the other night; he was fidgety, checking his phone and watch (she considered sneaking it off of him to make him stop) more than usual instead of his calm and steady demeanor she was so used to. She commented upon it when he checked his phone for the 20th time, and he answered that he was looking after a guest and wanted to make sure he didn’t miss a call if anything happened.

“Really?” Selina raised an eyebrow and swirled the red wine in her glass. “Should I be jealous?”

“He’s a kid from Park Row. Homeless,” Bruce said with a light voice. There was a softness to him Selina hadn’t noticed in while, a glow he’d lost after the first one left.

Selina hummed and took a sip of her wine, not taking her eyes off Bruce.

“His name is Jason. He’s great. A good kid.”

Selina works her way around the dancing crowd of people, between the empty tables and chairs, waving and nodding politely when some recognizes her, flashing a smile here and there. It was true, what she said. She really did want to see what had brought that warmth back into Bruce’s eyes, that little extra thing he’d been lacking lately, and when she saw a tiny figure sneak his way to the balcony, she couldn’t help but to follow. Like when she saw something she liked and she just _had_ to take a closer look. That urge had resulted in many of the thefts she’d done, for example the silver earrings she was wearing right now, stolen from a jewelry store down in Old Gotham, and her favourite diamond ring in a locked box in her apartment.

She’s not far from the entrance when she catches a glimpse of something odd in the corner of her eye. It’s a tie, she realizes. Tossed on the floor. Champagne coloured. Selina changes direction and heads for the table. When she crouches and lifts the tablecloth, she isn’t surprised at what she finds.

“Hey,” she says.

 Jason straightens up and wipes his cheeks as best as he can. Selina reaches for a napkin on the table and gives it to him which he uses to rub his eyes and cheeks before he blows his nose with it. His eyes are puffy and cheeks red, not from blushing this time.

“Are you okay?”

He nods. “Yes. I’m fine,” he says in a voice she barely hears over the orchestra. They’re playing the Sleeping Beauty Waltz, she realizes.

“Do you want to come out of there?”

He shakes his head no.

“Well, I’ll let Bruce know you’re here. He’s looking for you.”

“No, wait. Wait! I’ll come out. Just...don’t tell him, please?”

Selina nods and says okay, she won’t tell Bruce. She sits down on one of the chairs around the table and Jason pulls one around so that he sits with his back turned against the stage. To hide his face from the crowd, Selina presumes.

She picks up his tie from the floor and adds it to the jacket. “Here,” she says and slides his clothes to him over the table. “It was sweet of you to let me borrow it.”

He sniffs and nods. “I’m glad it helped.”

The sit in silence for a bit, Selina wishing for a glass of champagne while Jason picks on his nails again, letting his face de-puff.

She’d never been good at talking to kids, not like Bruce could. She’d lost count over the times she had witnessed him go from breaking bones and threatening thugs to talking to kids and hold their hands within a minute, like somebody flipped a switch or completely replaced his personality.

“…Kiddo. Do you want to talk about what happened out there?”

Jason looks like he’s biting the inside of his cheek.

“It’s fine if you don’t.”

“I don’t.” He doesn’t look up from his slouched position.

Well, she tried. She resumes to people-watching again. She spots a nice purse amongst the crowd, and plays with the thought of stealing it later. It was a deep shade of purple, the exact shade she loved and would go well with her newest Givenchy dress. A sharp inhale snaps her out of her plan and when she looks at Jason, he’s bleeding from peeling away a long strip of skin on his right thumb. He puts the thumb in his mouth and sucks away the droplets of blood, ignoring Selina’s stare.

“I’ll get a band aid,” she sighs. When had she become a baby sitter?

A few minutes later, she holds out her hand for Jason’s thumb, band aid ready to be applied. Jason hesitates, but puts out his thumb for her to handle. As she gently places the band aid on, Jason mumbles, “They were staring. It’s stupid, but they looked at me like I was… wrong. For being here. For existing.”

He pulls his hand back and rubs the coarse surface of the band aid, pressing it against the pink flesh of the tear. “And then Mr. Wayne just… I don’t know. I just snapped.”

“It’s not stupid,” Selina says. “And Bruce is an idiot.”

Jason smiles weakly at his hands. He rubbing and rubbing, harder and harder. “It’s not his fault. I shouldn’t have come here tonight,” he mutters, more to himself than to Selina. She can practically hear his teeth grinding.

Park Row kids had always been one of the most tragic elements of Gotham. They were all the same; covered in clothes too big with holes in them or in worst case; rags. They had dirt in their faces, stretched thin with sharp jaws, hollow cheeks and bony hands, eyes wide and quick and devoid from anything that resembled a childlike innocence. There was a certain danger to the kids, a certain sharpness that always made her shudder. To some degree they scared her, because the kids knew how to wield knives and often guns, self-taught on how to survive on nothing and to sleep with one eye open, ready to make a run for it whenever they needed to. All things kids shouldn’t know. Mostly they scared her because of the unavoidable fates they all had, the destinies they desperately tried to run away from.

Addicts, criminals, prostitutes or dead. Throw in abuse, rape and beatings to get the full package.

Bruce had fought for years to change that. And maybe he had, because now there was a possibility that maybe, just _maybe_ there was a one in a million chance that one kid out of a thousand could get out. To get some sort of normal life with a shitty apartment and a mortgage and a dog and clothes that were bought at a sale, maybe working an office job, drinking coffee by the water cooler while talking about the weather with boring colleagues that always had bad breath.

Jason might have that chance. Unless she did something. She needs to direct his gaze upwards and stop him from sinking further down.

Selina leans forward and reaches for Jason’s surprisingly cold hands, stopping them from tearing themselves apart. They pull back a little but he doesn’t yank them away like she expected.

“Come with me,” she says and stands up. The orchestra is wrapping up Sleeping Beauty Waltz and they have a window coming she had every intention on using.

“What?” he asks. She pulls him towards her to make him stand up.

“We’re going to dance.” He begins to protest but it’s too late, she’s already gently pulling him with her towards the dance floor, towards the crowd. When she finds a suitable spot, she turns to face him, still holding his hand. He’s glancing nervously at the people surrounding them and Selina senses the tension creeping back into him, his palms sweating and he starts to wiggle out of her grip, shaking his head, ready to exit.  

“Hand on my waist,” she says, firmly putting his left on her waist which for him was straight forward ( _He’s small_ , she chuckles internally) and she places her own right on his shoulder. He winces a bit under her grip and he mumbles something about dislocating it, so she softens it. The orchestra and the maestro is settling again, getting ready for the next song.

“I’ve never danced before,” he says, biting his lip.

She clasps their hands together out to the side. “You’ve never danced before? Ever?” Selina teases.

“No, I meant like this. Properly, with a starting position and shit.”

She chuckles. “Just relax. It’ll be just back and forth. I’ll lead.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

The orchestra begins playing softly, followed by the rising sound of violins, playing an elegant tune with elements of melancholy and tragedy. Selina recognizes it as Tchaikovsky’s Valse Sentimentale, a piece she had danced to before with Bruce after a dinner at one of the best restaurants in the city. One of their better dates where it hadn’t been undercover, ended in a disagreement or ended with them with the suits on, chasing away in the night.

Jason follows her lead as she smoothly moves back and forth on her heels, her dress swaying along with her. Jason? Not so elegant. Not that she blames him. He’s not moving quietly, more like stepping awkwardly while staring down at his feet, concentrating hard to not step on her toes.

“Look up at me,” she says. “Don’t look at your feet.”

“I don’t want to step on your toes and ruin your shoes.”

“I can take it. And how else will you learn?”

He looks up and straightens his back. His face is less red now and not as puffy, she notices.

“And _relax_ ,” she adds. He's stiff and awkward, like Bruce.

They continue moving together, back and forth, slowly turning clockwise. About halfway through the dance, a sharp _tch_ on Selina’s left makes her turn and raise an eyebrow at an elderly lady and her husband dancing together. The wife is giving Jason a dirty look, not even turning when the husband whispers something in her ear. When the husband takes her hand and leads her away from Jason and Selina, the lady gives a clear _hmph_ sound.

“What was that all about?” Selina says, more to herself than to Jason.

“I don’t want to dance anymore,” Jason mutters, releases his grip and takes a step back, looking after the elderly couple with a blank stare. He turns to go back to the table he hid under earlier.

“Hey, wait a second.” Selina puts a hand on his shoulder. “Was that the lady that complained about you earlier? The one who got offended after you did an ‘obscene gesture’?

He nods solemnly and breaks out of her grip, disappearing in the crowd again.

Selina hums, and instead of following Jason, she takes a right. After making her way across the dance floor to follow the couple, she spots them at the bar waiting for their drinks. A waiter walks by so she snaps up a glass of champagne from his tray, taking a sip as she moves closer. When she finally reaches the bar, she leans over the counter, squinting at the selection of bottles with the husband to her right. She listens in to their conversation but she doesn’t pick up much interesting except that they seem to be having a disagreement over what to do. The wife is aggressive, wanting to complain again to the host and then leave the gala altogether, while the husband argues (rather feebly, in Selina's opinion) that there’s not any point in leaving, why not just enjoy themselves? Selina resists rolling her eyes and pretends to take a second sip of her glass. 

Then when they move almost at the same time and everything happens fast. The couple turns to the left and moves to the exit (the wife won the argument, apparently) at the same time as Selina moves to her right with the champagne glass in front of her and eyes focused at the shelves behind the bar - and the two parties collide.

Selina crashes into the husband, spilling champagne on his shirt and jacket, and oh my God, she’s so so sorry, oh let me help you clean up good sir, I’m such a klutz! She calls for the bartender to get a towel, ignoring the wife’s protests and the husband’s attempts to calm her down. Selina snaps the towel from the bartender and begins dabbing it on his shirt in poor attempts to wipe up the giant, wet stain forming on his torso.

“Oh gosh, I am so sorry, I really am. I swore to myself I wouldn’t drink more than two glasses tonight,” she sighed and stopped with a hand on her hip, wafting the towel around and in their face. “But when my date stood me up I just thought ‘Well, I don’t have anyone to impress’ if you know what I mean,” she laughed and patted the aghast wife’s shoulder in an obligatory women’s solidarity touch, a ‘you get me, sister’ type of touch. “And- oh, wow, lady, somebody got a nice broach,” Selina exclaims and leans closer, letting her fingers brush against it before the lady gets a chance to protest.

“And Oh. My. God, you got it on your jacket too, oh, I am such a mess tonight, Jesus! Well, at least it wasn’t red wine because that would be a nightmare, believe me, I remember one time a friend of mine -” she complains loudly, beginning to dab the towel on his shoulder and down the arm, blabbering away about how a non-existing friend had spilled red wine on a white dress. The wife clears her throat.

“Jeez, you’re going to have use seltzer for this, I think, or maybe you guys use private cleaning services-“

“E- _hem_!”

Selina stops talking, feigning a surprised look.

 “I think we will manage from here,” the wife says in a polite yet strained tone.

“But at least let me pay for the –“

The wife holds up a hand to stop her. “That won’t be necessary. We’ll be leaving soon.”

Selina grabs her hand and holds it between her own, as if she’s begging to let her pay. “Are you sure? It’s the least I could do after ruining your evening!” she pleads dramatically.

“Our evening has been ruined a long time ago,” the older woman retorts and pulls her hand to her. She walks briskly past Selina and the husband follows his wife towards their table.

30 seconds later, Selina sits down next to Jason at the table in the corner. They both sit with their backs turned to the crowd. She opens her hand to reveal a red flower broach, a diamond ring and a gold watch.

“Wait-“

Jason’s mouth hangs open and his eyes go wide as he realizes. He looks from her to the bar and back to her hand.

“You- but-“

“Yes, I did,” Selina says somewhat proudly as she tries on the diamond ring. It was older and a bit worn, but still very pretty. It fit her perfectly so she let it be on her ring finger, now hers to keep as long as it suited her.

“I’ve never been a fan of broaches,” she says in a casual tone, as if she was talking about the weather while weighing the red flower broach in her hand, turning it to see it from different angles. “And the watch is for men. You can have these two,” she says and drops the broach and the watch in Jason’s lap, who stares at both with wide eyes.

“Do what you want with them.”

“Miss Kyle,” he says in a small voice. “I can’t have stolen jewelry on me, not _here_. Mr. Wayne will-”

“ – will be upset if he catches you but I think you’re smarter than that.” She looks at him and gives him a mischievous smile. His face isn’t puffy or red anymore. In fact, he’s turning pale at the items in his lap he didn’t dare to touch.

“I think it’s time for me to leave now,” she hums. “The party's almost over anyway.”

Jason looks at her with a bewildered expression as she stands up and smooths out her dress. “Miss Kyle, I can’t accept these.”

Selina sighs and looks Jason in the eyes with a firm gaze. “Listen. Bruce is an idiot, you know. He really is and I can vouch for that. But he’s not a _bad_ guy. And I meant it when I said he’s fond of you.”

Jason closes his mouth and looks down at the broach and the watch again. He lifts them gently and holds them in his hand, feeling their weight and the smoothness of the watch and the sparkling, prickly stones of the broach.

 

***

 

BRUCE

Once when Bruce was a boy, he had a test in second grade. A math test. He had been nervous, since he wasn’t that strong in math at that point in life, and he had spent weeks studying, catching up to the syllabus and repeating the material over and over. His father had helped, sitting with him night after night huddled over Bruce’s desk, full of patience and giving pointers to help Bruce remember whenever he had time off. The day of the test was an icy morning, resulting in traffic chaos in all of Gotham. There was a crash in the same street as the school, so as a result the entire street was a mess, cars parked awkwardly left and right and not one of them able to move.

Alfred had to let Bruce jump out and run the last block to make it in time. As he ran a shortcut over the parking lot of the school, an elderly lady slipped on the ice and broke her leg. Even though Bruce heard the bell ring, he couldn’t leave the lady to herself. He called 911. The man on the phone gave him instructions on how to keep her calm, warm and to ease her pain. Due to the godawful traffic the ambulance used a half an hour to get to the school, a trip that normally only used 6-8 minutes. When Bruce finally got to the classroom, the teacher wouldn’t let him in even with his explanation and sent him to the principal, who called his parents. Thomas had to pick him up. Bruce was so ashamed for missing the test he couldn’t look his father in the eye as he explained why the principal had called. When he was done, he was fighting to not let tears drip down into his lap and apologized for wasting his father’s time and keeping him away from work.

To his shock, Thomas leaned over and pulled him into a warm hug.

 “You did the right thing, Bruce,” Thomas said in his ear before letting him go. “You chose to help her, even with no reason to. You didn’t have to stay with her, but you did.” Thomas wiped Bruce’s cheek and smiled warmly. “I am so proud of you.”

Bruce wonders if Thomas would’ve been proud now, after making a traumatized boy terrified and run away for the second time. A voice in the back his head says he wouldn’t be.

He checks his phone again, rushing upstairs to check Jason’s room. There were no updates on his screen. He curses under his breath as he shoves it back into his pocket. After leaving the gala, he had talked to the head of security and ordered them to guard every exit in the Manor and stay on the lookout for Jason, and he had called Alfred to let him know, although he’d sparingly left out the details as to why Jason had panicked. They could have _that_ particular conversation later. Alfred had immediately left the kitchen in charge to whoever was next in command to join Bruce in the search. They split up; Bruce taking second floor and the attic while Alfred took first floor and the gardens.  

Bruce reaches the door of Jason’s bedroom and rips it open, not bothering to knock this time.

“Jason!”

It’s empty so he tries the bathroom. Also empty. He strides over to the wardrobe and checks that too but there’s no one there. He lets out a frustrated groan, running a hand through his hair and thinking about Jason’s horrified expression minutes prior.

 Jesus Christ, what had he done? The last time Jason decided to leave it had taken him five days - _five days_ \- to find Jason and he got extraordinarily lucky but now…who knew how long it would take and if he’d get a lucky break again.

Bruce considers calling the GCPD and putting out a missing person, or at least to let them know… what exactly? He’d been a jackass and chased away a kid who was practically kidnapped and held at the Manor against his own will? They’d charge him with kidnapping (which the media would never let go) and send Jason to an orphanage and most definitely make sure he’d never see Jason again. On the other hand, the GCPD could be on a lookout and make it easier to find Jason if he’s already on his way back to Gotham.

No, he decides after a minute. That would break all trust Jason had to him, if there’s any of it left. He slides his phone back into his pocket. If he doesn’t find Jason on his own in the next hour, he’d call GCPD. _At least the boxes are still here,_ Bruce thinks in relief, staring at the two boxes full of who-knows-what. Jason wouldn’t leave all of his things behind like that, would he?

 _Ok. There’s a chance he’s still here, somewhere._ He takes a breath. Bruce would find him.

Bruce almost wanted to laugh at how much Jason had him wrapped around his finger. If only the League could see him now. The greatest detective in the world crumbling and losing his shit every time a kid he’d known for a total of two weeks got upset at him.

20 minutes later he’s searched through the second floor and the attic twice, with no results except finding a carving in one of the windowsills that oddly enough made his heart almost collapse in on itself. _Jason Todd was here_ , it said. A childish gesture from someone who never had a childhood.

“Have you found anything?”

“No, Master Bruce. Neither has security,” Alfred says on the other end. Bruce can hear the worry in his voice.

“Let me know if you do,” Bruce says and hangs up the phone. He’s hurrying back to the ballroom to talk to the some of the staff members and the orchestra members to see if any of them had seen where Jason had gone – something he honestly should have done immediately, he scolds himself. Had all of his training gone out the window?

Perhaps he’d talk to some of the guests too, if he got there before most of them left. It’s late, and by the faint sound of laughter and footsteps echoing, Bruce can tell there’s a batch of guests leaving early to get ahead of the traffic chaos on their way back home.

Sure enough, once he takes a turn he sees a steady stream of people exiting the ballroom, a little drunker and fatter than they were when they entered. He slows down and puts on the face of a gracious host whose party had gone according to plan, ready to send off his guests with a personal goodbye. He nods and smiles, gives his handshakes, goodbyes and compliments as he works his way against the stream and towards the entrance. Someone bumps into him and when he turns to say the usual routine of ‘Excuse me, I’m so sorry’, the words die in his throat when he gazes into a pair of green eyes.

Selina smirks at him and he can’t help but notice her lips are still the perfect shade of red. She always looked good with red lips. He nudges her to the side to step away from the people coming up behind them.

“Selina,” he states.

“Bruce,” she says.

“Are you leaving?”

“I thought that was obvious. I’m on my way out, no?” she giggles, and Bruce wishes he’d been a bit more thorough when he had shaved that morning. Although they already are close, Selina moves even closer while putting her purse under her arm, and he feels her hands straightening his tie. He doesn’t take his eyes away from her face and resists the urge to tilt her chin upwards. There are less people walking past them now, but still too many. Maybe half of the guests had left now.

“I changed my mind about staying the night. Your attention would be somewhere else anyway and I don’t enjoy being the odd one out,” she hums. She’s now picking lint off of his collar and Bruce can smell the delicate scent of her Chanel perfume, the one he knew was her favourite. She always wore it on their dates, occasionally when they were suited up and he was chasing her across the rooftops, nights she would laugh and tease him as she somersaulted through the air and slipped away from him. Sometimes she didn’t and he’d wake up alone with the perfume being the only trace of her and the night before.

He grabs her wrist and holds her hand up for the both of them to see. “You have a new ring on.”

“Yes. Pretty, isn’t it?” she smiles and admires the diamond ring on her ring finger.

“Selina…” Bruce rubs the bridge of his nose. He already had enough on his plate and certainly no room to deal with guests who would complain about stolen jewelry, a scandal that would most definitely be tomorrow’s headlines. He could already see it; ‘Thievery at Wayne Gala!’ ‘Guests at Wayne Gala victims of thievery – the richest man in Gotham can’t afford decent security?’ ‘Wayne Gala flops as it suffers criminal activity? Pictures here!’

Even worse – if the press caught whiff of Jason’s presence at the gala? They would have a damn field day. In a heartbeat, the blame would be put on the kid from Park Row with a dubious past, and who knows what rumours would come afterwards and how long they would last, one breeding another like a game of telephone. Even if Bruce somehow managed to quiet things down with an official statement, Jason would be dissected and eaten alive. The GCPD would get involved and when finding out Bruce has no relations to him, they’d take him away. If this escalated, it would turn into a disaster.

“I can’t let you leave with that,” he says in a low tone.

“I’m not asking for permission,” she says coldly. “If you’re worried about the owner reporting it, I can assure you, she won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Selina sighs and rolls her eyes at him, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the universe. “It’s a _diamond ring_. If the woman hasn’t noticed, it’s not important to her. When she does notice, she’ll think she lost it. If, by chance, she already _has_ noticed her diamond ring is gone, she hasn’t caused a scene. The ring is old and worn, meaning she’s happy to get rid of it. It had value when it was new - but not anymore _meaning_ she’ll use this opportunity as an excuse to get a new one.”

Bruce gave her an unimpressed look. Even if those were very likely scenarios, there’s still a chance Jason would be hurt and he couldn’t take that risk – even if there was only one percent chance.

“That’s not good enough. Give me the ring,” he growls.

“I suppose I could give it to you. What’s in it for me?”

“I won’t have you arrested.”

Selina giggles and in any other circumstance, it would be a giggle that would make Bruce's heart flutter.

“First of all, it’s cute you think any of the buffoons in the GCPD can catch me and second, I don’t believe for a second you dare to stick to your threats. But I’m in a good mood, so I give up.” She takes the ring off and places it in his palm, closing his fingers around it with her own.

“As a present, I can also share I took a broach and a gold watch too.”

“Hand them over.”

“Oh, but I don’t have them,” she pouts. “I gave them to the little birdie. He’s in the ballroom, by the way, Mister Greatest Detective in the World. And I wouldn’t worry. He’s not dumb enough to keep them. Have a nice night, Mr. Wayne.” She pats his cheek, smirks and walks away.

He sighs and puts the ring in his pocket. He’d have to do a sweep of the house tomorrow morning to see what Selina would have taken to replace what she had lost and what she would have taken out of pure pettiness. Bruce says his goodbyes and shakes the hands of more people he couldn’t remember the names of before walking back to the entrance doors.

There’s still people left, hanging on to conversations about older and better times with even older friends. The orchestra has wrapped up on the stage, carefully packing up instruments and their sheet music and the waiter staff are cleaning up glasses and surfaces with washcloths. Then, across the room, Bruce spots Jason among the tables heading for an elderly couple getting ready to leave – the same couple that had complained about Jason earlier. The last group of guests interrupts Bruce’s path and he shakes more hands, says his thanks to their compliments, bids them his good-byes and hopes to repeat this one day, thank you for coming, good night, the orchestra was indeed amazing, the food was from a catering company and yes, it was delicious as well, thank you, thank you…

By the time the last guests have gotten their serving of validation and handshakes, Jason is talking to the couple, their faces unreadable. The younger boy hands something over and points somewhere over to the bar, explaining something and then the older lady gives him a sharp smile and a nod before she and her husband finally begins to leave. Without looking back, the couple comes towards Bruce, who flashes a bright smile.

“Mr. and Mrs. Kreutzberger. I hope you had a lovely evening.”

“For your information, Mr. Wayne, I did enjoy the dinner and the orchestra. The guests on the other hand… I don’t like to have children around during our parties, especially ones that have a clear tendency to spin out of control and make obscene gestures. And I also see you have not done your job as a host, as the _child_ is still here.”

“Mrs. Kreutzberger, I am sorry to hear you haven’t enjoyed your stay here. But with all due respect, this is my house and my dinner party. I have taken the liberty to invite whomever I please. Now, as for doing my job as a host, I admit I have failed one of my guests here tonight, but I can with absolute certainty, say that it was _not_ you.”

The older woman shuts her mouth and purses her lips. “Hmph. Well, I don’t believe my husband and I will come back to any of your events again, Mr. Wayne. This dinner party has been despicable.”

“Again, with all due respect, Mrs. Kreutzberger; I think I will be just fine. Oh, and someone gave me this ring-“ he takes the diamond ring out of his pocket, “and I see you are missing yours? Perhaps you’d like it back?”

He hands it over to Mr. Kreutzberger, who is turning a shade of pink and avoids looking Bruce in the eyes as he accepts the ring. Mrs. Kreutzberger crosses her arms and turns her nose upwards.

“Now that everything is sorted out, I think it’s time you escort yourselves out.”

Bruce gestures to the doors and gives a cold smile, and then the Kreutzbergers walk past him, the missus without looking at him and the husband hunched over in embarrassment. Their footsteps echo down the hallway. 

Bruce notices the silence surrounding him. The ballroom is empty, with the exception of him and Jason, who hasn’t moved from his spot. Bruce catches Jason’s eyes, and they stare at each other for a second that feels like a lifetime.

“I’m-“ Bruce begins to say but then Jason looks away, gathers his jacket and tie and stalks past him without a word, without a glance.

“Jason,” Bruce tries again, a little desperate. Jason stops and turns, giving Bruce a blank look.

“I didn’t steal those things,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“I was giving it back.”

“I know.”

“I’m not lying.”

“I know.”

A beat of silence.

“Not many would do what you just did,” Bruce says quietly, slowly moving closer to Jason. “I want to clear up my intentions from earlier. I did not mean to accuse you. I wanted to ask you and hear your side first, before taking action. In hindsight, I realize I should have been better at formulating myself and I shouldn’t have made you feel cornered.”

He stops five feet away from Jason.

“I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jason shrugs. He looks tired, drained of all energy.

“No, it does. Tonight could’ve gone better. I won’t deny that. But I put you in a spot you’ve never been in before. You defied my expectations and you handled it well. I’m proud of you.”

Jason looks up, with eyes wide and lips parted in a quiet bewilderment.

He had slapped his hand away earlier, lashing out at the intrusion. With Dick it had been so easy to squeeze and hug. Mostly because Dick had been raised on physical affection and touch, almost like a second language and as a result, Dick had been the one who initiated the hugs and the snuggling and the playful teasing, to the point where Bruce didn’t even think about it anymore.

Jason didn’t have the same background as Dick. Bruce has to try again.

“Get some sleep,” he says. As he walks past Jason, he places a hand on his short curls and ruffles them a little bit. His head lowers itself under the movement but he doesn’t jerk away this time.

Baby steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter nearly killed me, although it was VERY fun to write. I love exploring different POVs and how one character affects another in the same situation. It's the longest chapter I've ever written. I thought about splitting it up in three based on the different POVs but nope, I just had to include all in one long chapter. Hopefully you enjoyed. 
> 
> I'm also gonna try to participate in the Jason Todd birthday week this year, so I might pause this series to focus on that, although I haven't made up my mind yet. I don't know if I'll post all of the prompts but at least some of them, we'll see. 
> 
> I'll be on a week vacation for the next week, so I'll be a bit slowed down in writing but I'll hopefully get stuff done nonetheless. I hope you all have a nice summer :)


	4. Rot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insomnia is a pain in the ass

JASON

Monday night

Day seven in the Manor

 

They’re carrying her out of the door on the stretcher. She’s covered with a white sheet and a hand hangs out on the left side. He can see her blue nails from where he hides, across the street in an alley, using the shadows as cover like he always did. The street and night is cold and quiet. There are no sounds, no usual signs of the Gotham city pulsating with life. He notices there’s no lights around him either – no windows lit up, not even a star in the sky or the gentle touch of moonlight. Everything is dark, except one streetlight flickering directly above the ambulance. The police car is in front of the ambulance, hidden away in the shadows, but he knows it’s there because that’s where it was that time. 

The two medics are identically dressed, their uniforms pure white and their faces are covered with white sanitary masks. By contrast, the two police officers are dressed in black suits, but instead of sanitary masks, their faces are covered with white Halloween masks. No one says a word. They’re moving like robots, each movement stiff, controlled and precise like they’ve done this a thousand times before. Which they have.

Jason hates them. He wishes he could run away. His feet won’t obey him and he can’t take his eyes away from the stretcher and the blue nails. The medics load her swiftly and quietly into the back of the ambulance before they go sit in the front to drive away. The policemen blend in with the shadows to sit in their own car and Jason waits for the sound of engines humming, for red taillights and the shrieking duet of sirens. They’ll drive to the closest hospital. They’ll put her in the morgue, cut her open and place a tag on her toe that reads Jane Doe.

He waits and waits and waits. The cars don’t move. He squints. Is there something wrong? Car troubles? He hesitantly moves forward and he stretches his neck to see in the windows of the ambulance. As always he furrows his brows when he sees there’s no one there. He walks up to the door on the passenger door and opens it to find the seats empty. The light flickers above his head. The sky remains black and soulless, like a mirror.

He takes a few steps back and looks around him. They couldn’t have gotten out, could they? Had he missed it? Had she disappeared too?

“Shit.”

Jason drops the backpack and everything he has in his hands as he rushes to the back of the ambulance to push the doors open. They're sealed shut. He knocks then bangs on the doors in an attempt to get them to open, like always.

“Hello? Anyone?” he shouts. No answer. He begins banging on the door and curses his short stature for not reaching the handles above his reach.

“Mom!” he yells.

As always, it’s as if someone kicks them open from the inside; they spring open and knocks Jason on the ground where instead of asphalt, there’s sunflowers forcing their way through the cracks. Just as they blossom they begin to rot, they beautiful yellow petals turning a nasty shade of brown and the fresh, soft stem turns into a shade of grey. Pricking him in the soft exposed flesh are thorns growing from the stems. He’d get up immediately and wipe blood away from his wounds if it weren’t for the woman standing in the back of the ambulance.

Standing. _Alive_.

The sheet, hanging on her like a ghost, slips off of her and lands next to her feet. Even from where he was sitting and with the flickering street light, Jason could clearly see the bruising and needle marks on her arms. Her face is half hidden away by her dirty hair but he could see her cracked lips and blank stare, her cheeks exactly as hollow as they used to be, her skin just as white and her lips just as purple.

“Mom…” Jason whispers breathlessly. “You’re… you’re _alive_?”

She blinks, as if she’s just realizing he’s there. She slowly looks down at him from where she’s standing and a chill goes down Jason’s spine when their eyes meet.

“No, baby, I’m not. You killed me, remember?” Her voice is devoid of emotion and is almost childlike in its lightness.

“No, no, mom, I-“

He tries to protest and to get up but the flowers have wrapped themselves around his arms and legs like rope, keeping him down tightly while the thorns carve themselves into his skin, making blood seep through his clothing, a sting he barely notices – his mother is tracing her fingers over her veins and feeling the grotesque marks on her skin. Cuts are manifesting themselves like painting on a canvas, with blood dripping from them, along with growing spots of blues and purple she doesn’t seem to notice.

 “Mom, p-please, I didn’t _mean_ to kill you, i-it wasn’t my fault, I-“

As if a switch is flipped, Catherine lets out a snarl of fury and suddenly her hands are around his throat, squeezing just hard enough to make him gasp for air as she pushes him down.

“You should’ve been there. You should’ve saved me! You let me die! You killed me! You did!” Blood from her nose and eyes and ears drip down on his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasps again and again until she finally lets him go, and he coughs until he can breathe again. When he opens his eyes, she stands on his right, observing him with those cold eyes. Then she turns and begins walking away, away from the ambulance and away from him, disappearing somewhere in the darkness.

“No, mom. Mom! Please come back! Mom, please, I’m sorry!” he screams after her, to no avail. He curses at the flowers that won’t let him go and the fucking darkness taking her away-

The light flickers again, and the two policemen appear, one on each side. One armed with a cattle prod and the other with a baton, which is new. The masks always send a shiver down his spine, with their black eyes and fake expressions.

Jason can’t move, no matter how much he wriggles, it just makes the thorns dig deeper into him and pulls him further down to be buried and he can’t move or do anything but plead and beg, trapped at the mercy of another –

The man with the cattle prod sticks into his thigh.

“No, don’t, don’t –“

He pushes a button. Jason’s jaws snaps shut and his body jolts, curling in on itself with no control, feeling the wave of electricity power through him from the prod - then just as quickly as it had appeared, it ended. The pain lingered in every nerve. Jason gasps for air and just barely manages to brace for the baton that slams down and crushes his kneecap. He screams out in pain and does everything he can to not pass out.

The two men draws back for a bit, circling him and studying him like he’s a lab rat, never taking their eyes off of him.

“W-who are you? Why are you doing this?” Jason chokes out between gasps.

The man with the cattle prod stops to Jason’s right and pulls his mask off.

“Now, now, Master Jason. This is for your own good, don’t you know? Boys like you always need discipline.”

“No, no no no,” Jason whimpers. “Mr. Pennyworth, please…”

The man with the baton stops directly behind Jason’s head and squats down, leaning down until he’s inches away from Jason’s face before he too pulls of the mask. His face is cold and there’s no trace of mercy in those eyes that usually were mild and patient.

“I let you into my house, sleep in my beds. Eat my food.”

Jason lets out a cry of desperation and turns away from the man as best as he can, but he grips Jason’s chin and forces him to look up.

“You’re _nothing_ -”

 “Shut up! Shut up!”

“- and I should’ve done the world a favour and put you down like the rat you are.”

“No! Don’t say that, not _you_!”

Mr. Wayne smirks and his eyes narrows in an evil glee. He stands up and puts his mask back on, and Mr. Pennyworth does the same. Then the prod is in Jason’s side and the baton swings down towards his nose.

“ _No_!”

 

Jason jerks and hits his hand on the corner of dresser.

“Shit,” he mumbles.

The heat is suffocating him; it’s too hot and claustrophobic. He sits upright and squints towards the window. The sky outside had begun to show traces of those summer sunrises with some beams of sunshine making the dark blue sky infuse with tones of orange and pink.

He gets up and opens the window to air out the room. He inhales a big breath of crisp morning air, leans against the sill and observes the view with tired eyes. He _hates_ the nightmares that dragged him through the maelstrom of shitty memories and made them even worse… And this particular nightmare was nasty and familiar, yet so new. Usually the two policemen were two Willis’, who taunted and mocked him as they circled him. Now Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth had taken their place. Had they crept that deep under his skin already?

He’d only slept, what? Two and a half hours? _Fucking insomnia_ , he thinks bitterly. Grabbing the history book on his nightstand, he settles on the floor beneath the window and starts reading from where he’d left off.


	5. Mac, cheese and Arnold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something strange with Bruce and Alfred. Oh shit. A fire?

JASON

Thursday

Day nine in the Manor

 

After the gala on Friday, Jason retreated back into his habit of spending his days at the library, only occasionally seeing Mr. Wayne at dinner if he was back from work. Jason did his best to avoid him as much as he could; he couldn’t stand being in the same room as him after what he had said.

 _I’m proud of you_. The words echoed in his mind, like a mocking reminder of how stupid Jason had acted on Friday. More annoyingly, he couldn’t understand what he meant. Like…it’s a joke, right? It had to be. Jason hadn’t done _shit_ to be proud of; he had thrown a hissy fit like a brat, hid under the table like a coward and then whined obnoxiously about it to a stranger. He’d fucked up the entire thing. And Mr. Wayne responded by saying that.

Jason despised it. Was it just a ploy for Mr. Wayne to humiliate Jason so that he could praise him, feel charitable and get off on it? Or maybe Mr. Wayne planned to compliment and groom him, before dragging Jason in front of an audience to crush him into pieces and point and laugh about how Jason had fallen like a sucker for each lie he'd been told. 

Jason tries to not think about it. He submerges himself into books and the small things more than before and gives himself little time with his own thoughts.

Even though Jason did what he could to avoid Mr. Wayne, it wasn’t really much he needed to do since the other man had been busy too, disappearing to meetings and whatnot during the day and doing God-knows-what during nights.

Jason had noticed the Manor was devoid of people during the night, something he’d discovered after his nightmare on Monday night. He couldn’t concentrate properly on the political assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, so he tiptoed down to the kitchen a little after four AM to get a glass of water. There he found a pot of fresh coffee on the stove, still warm. At first, he thought maybe Alfred or Bruce or both had worked late or maybe one of them had a bad night too.

During breakfast he noticed Bruce walked with a slight limp on his left leg and a purple bruise blooming on his cheekbone, one Bruce claimed he had gotten after “accidentally tripping” when he noticed Jason’s glances.

Now, Mr. Wayne is a good liar. A really good one, actually. But tripping and falling over is _the_ most used explanation for taking a beating, followed by startling someone and getting hit by accident, followed by falling down the stairs and lastly, walking into a door. Almost every woman with bruises in Park Row had told those lies at one point in their lives, and Jason knows damn well what marks a punch in the face leaves.

On Tuesday morning, Bruce had two broken fingers so on Tuesday night, Jason let curiosity get the best of him and he snuck down the hallway, listening intently on any sounds – snoring, bed creaking etc. When he didn’t hear anything, he carefully knocked on Mr. Wayne's door. After a minute of never-ending dead silence, Jason pushed open the door and peeked in only to find it empty. The butler’s room too, was empty. The entire hallway with bedrooms was empty.

Then Jason walked around in the Manor, quietly and with his knife ready just in case, to see if Mr. Wayne had gone to the kitchen or the library or somewhere to work – but it was empty. Both had disappeared without a trace, without a clue or the sound of an engine humming in the night.

Too wrapped up in his own thoughts, Jason hadn’t noticed the only other two residents of the Manor go somewhere else during nights, and angry with himself, he scolded himself for being sloppy and made a reminder to be even more observant of his environments from here on out.

Jason throws a small bouncing ball onto the floor before it bounces to the bathroom door and then back to him, a nice rhythmic beat and movement.

Floor, door, him.

Just like it isn’t Mr. Wayne's business to ask Jason about stuff, it’s not Jason’s place to ask Mr. Wayne whether he had an illegal fight club or whatever it was rich people did to get off. Admittedly, he’s still curious, considering there’s something off with how the guy moves and acts – it’s too swift and quiet for someone built like a house. People that broad shouldered and muscular were cocky and took up unnecessary space. And then the bruises. Nothing adds up.

Floor, door, him.

Now, Thursday afternoon, Jason’s in his room, a little hungry and mentally counting the days for when he goes back to the familiar, cold chaos of Park Row. There’s only 17 more days. It would be doable if he just kept to himself like this.

Floor, door, him.

A week ago, in the kitchen, Mr. Pennyworth had told him that Jason was never ever going back to his life in Park Row, and it seemed like he had meant it. It’s bizarre, Jason thinks, how the butler could be so determined to do something for someone he didn’t owe anything. For someone who already owed the Mr. Pennyworth a bunch.

Floor, door, him.

Floor, door –

Something’s beeping.

The ball hits him on the chest on and drops to the floor, bouncing away from his feet. He doesn’t dare to move. A microwave? A bomb?

No. An alarm. Something’s burning. A _fire_.

Jason’s out the door immediately, running down the hall and down the stairs, trying not to think about the fires he had seen, engulfing buildings, devouring people and burning lives like nothing. He doesn’t like fire. The sweltering, unbearable heat, the black smoke forcing its way to the lungs and choking out oxygen, the destructive forces of it, leaving nothing in its wake but ashes and pain.

Death by burning, suffocation or getting crushed by the building collapsing.  

The burns on his upper arms, shoulders and the one on his left collar bone itches as Jason imagines the red hot licking the walls in the kitchen, eating its way to the ceiling and spreading like an infection. The smell of smoke gets closer and stronger, and Jason has to put it out before anything more gets burned, before the entire Manor burns down and the people here with it, and he’d get the blame, for sure, and had he left the stove on? No, a candle left unwatched, a washcloth too close to the oven, a device that overheated or -

(Willis lights his cigarette. The smoke makes Jason’s eyes sting but he doesn’t dare move. Willis inhales and exhales and a cloud of smoke that dances through the air.)

He bursts into the kitchen, ready to put out the fire however big it was - instead he stops dead in his tracks at the sight of Mr. Wayne fanning a burning pan of something with grey smoke steaming from it, cursing under his breath. Behind him, the sink had begun to overflow, spilling soapy water onto the floor, and in addition to the chaos of smoke and overflowing sinks is the loud beeping of the fire alarm in tact with Mr. Wayne's frantic fanning. If not for the memories of burning buildings fresh in his mind, it’d make Jason snort. The entire kitchen is a mess.

(Mom’s somewhere behind him, crying softly. Jason can imagine her, hiding behind her hair and staying still, holding herself together and wiping her bloody nose.)

 “Ssssshit,” Mr. Wayne mutters as tears stream from his eyes. In an attempt to move away from the smoke, he steps to the side and almost slips on the on the soapy water that had reached his feet.

Jason snaps out of it and quickly walks over to the sink, turns off the tap. Then he pulls back his sleeve and takes away whatever had clogged the drain (it was burned black so it was hard to tell exactly what it was). He tosses a towel on the floor before opening all of the windows in the room to air out the smoke that had now laid itself like a thin fog around them.

Then he grabs the lid to the pan, shoves Mr. Wayne away from it and slides the lid on the pan, slowly choking out the fire. _It smells awful_. He makes sure the stove plates are turned off and carefully moves the pan to the now empty sink.

(The cigarette left a red circle on his collarbone. That’s the one that hurt the most.)

“Can you turn the alarm off? It’s noisy as hell.” Jason gestures to the alarm on the ceiling, blinking red. Mr. Wayne nods. Jason turns to the sink and the pan again. He scrapes the blackened… _whatever_ it is out of the pan and sniffs it. It smells distinctly like oil and onions. He carefully takes a bite. Burnt but not inedible. He puts it on a plate and rinses the pan, scrubbing lightly with soap until it’s spotless.

The beeping stops behind him and Mr. Wayne pushes the chair back to its place. He sighs and rubs his chin in dissatisfaction.

“I tried to make dinner. Caramelized onions, vegetables and roasted halibut.”

“Halibut?”

“A type of fish,” he explains. The man takes off his apron and folds it on one of the chairs.

“Alfred is meeting an old friend in town,” he continues, while Jason takes a seat at the kitchen island. Mr. Wayne rubs his eyes, the sting and the wet of the tears away while Jason places the plate of charred onions in front of him. He grabs a fork and takes a bite. It’s oily and gross. He forces it down.

“I’m supposed to make dinner but I’m no Alfred in the kitch– _what are you doing_?!”

Jason takes the last bite and swallows. “I’m… eating?” His eyes sting and he tries to blink it away.

“Jason, you didn’t have to eat that! I’m going to make something else that isn’t burned to a crisp.” Mr. Wayne leans forward on the island, studying Jason with a worried look.

Jason shrugs. “It’s no point in it going to waste.”

“That’s not what I mean. That wasn’t _food_.”

“It was _edible_ ,” Jason snaps back. “It’d go to waste if you just threw it away.” He pushes the fork around on the plate, drawing circles with the grease and oil left over.

Food is not and had never been a resource Jason could afford to throw away. He and Catherine used to eat every leftover, every crumb they had when they lived in the apartment, although Catherine occasionally threw away rotten food, saying they could do without food poisoning. When Jason became homeless, food became even scarcer. Anything edible, rotten or with mould, he kept and gulfed down when it was time, either if it was right away or later, after scraping off the worst of it. If he didn’t grab food on the rare occasions it presented itself, he would starve in a heartbeat. Or not a heartbeat – it’d take a few days, actually.

He stands to wash off his plate while feeling Mr. Wayne's gaze burn holes in his scull.

“…I’ll make something else,” the man finally says quietly.

“…I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne, but with all due respect, I don’t want to put out another fire or risk the place burning down.”

“That’s…quite understandable, actually.” Mr. Wayne scratches his cheek thoughtfully. “We can just order something, although Alfred will grin his nose. He’s never appreciated fast food. Do you like Chinese?”

“…I don’t mind it, but… if you don’t mind me messing around in here and use your pots, I can probably whip something up,” Jason points out shyly.

If he could do something and be _useful_ in this mansion, for once, he’d do it immediately. He had tried a few times before; cleaning, doing the dishes by hand (he didn’t dare touch the dishwasher and fuck up the programming), cooking and more but Mr. Pennyworth had come running and politely shooed him away, refusing his help.

“Really?” Mr. Wayne says, eyebrows up in surprise. “What were you thinking?”

Jason rubs his neck. “It’s not like, fancy or anything and kinda stupid, really, but... I can make a decent mac and cheese,” he finishes lamely. It sounded laughable now that he said it, that mac and cheese made by a shabby 10-year old could somehow be better than the roasted fish Jason had never even heard of with a side of caramelized onions and vegetables.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Mr. Wayne says. He has a look on his face Jason can’t quite identify and he shrugs in response.

“But, yes. I’d love mac and cheese. Do you mind if I sit here and read the paper while you cook?” He nods to the kitchen table.

“It's your house? Do whatever you want,” Jason shrugs again, hiding the newfound excitement in him. It had been so long since he’d made a meal from scratch over a stove with utensils.

It’s one of the most insignificant things he had missed while homeless: the simple joy of cooking a meal and working with his hands to make something to eat for himself and his mom, feeling the sweat drip on his forehead and breathe in the different smells of spices, stirring whatever he was making to keep it from burning and then finally putting it on a platter to make it look a bit presentable. Catherine had liked his food, back when she was present enough to eat something by herself. When she started the drugs, half of the joy he got from cooking disappeared.

Mr. Wayne sits down and starts reading one of the newspapers lying around while Jason turns on the radio with the sound turned low.

His mind wanders while he cooks, thinking about what he would do the first day he’s out of the Manor and where he’s going to sleep afterwards. He kinda misses hanging out in one of the abandoned buildings in Park Row, where most homeless sought shelter during bad weather and they would trade or sell loot or food with each other, like their own private market. It was one of the few instances it was a calmness in everyone, guards were let down, if only a little, and people were just people together.

Jason meant what he had said to Batman on the rooftop two weeks earlier; that there’s a community of sorts among the poor, even though most of the homeless would stab you without blinking for a loaf of bread or a night in a warm bed. Still, a bond of sorts is there. Jason learned early that when you’re collectively cast out by society, ignored by society and regarded as less than nothing by society it was difficult to not cling onto each other for the last human contact available. The sense of unity among many was also forged by the criminals who used Park Row as a hunting ground and shared experiences of being exploited and conned and cast away.

Park Row was dangerous, treacherous and bloody violent, but it was _home_. Chaotic. Cruel. Familiar. Simple. Home.

Jason misses it.

“…It’s finished,” he says and takes the pot of mac and cheese off of the stove plate. He grabs two pretty bowls with a blue flower pattern and begins loading one portion in one of the bowls with a spoon spatula.

“Great,” Mr. Wayne says and puts the paper down, folding over in the middle before getting up. “It smells good. I haven’t had mac and cheese in a long time. Alfred usually cooks French cuisine or Asian."

 “Sorry,” Jason mutters. He walks clockwise around the island to avoid Bruce and goes to pull over one of the chairs and sits down while Mr. Wayne grabs his own bowl. Jason’s grip lingers on the hot ceramic. He hated fire but he warmth was valuable and something he cherished. His fingers begin to sting, but he doesn’t let go yet.

“I didn’t mean –“ Mr. Wayne sighs. He takes a pause and clears his throat. “How about watching a movie?”

“While eating?”

“Yes. A TV dinner.”

“Oh.” Jason lets go of the bowl and puts his fingers on the cold surface of the table to cool them.

“Do you want to eat here instead?”

“No, I just… I don’t know. I didn’t think people like you ate dinner in front of the TV.”

Mr. Wayne chuckles. “I think TV dinners are something that transcends space and time. Come on. You pick the movie.”

Jason didn’t know shit about movies. He didn’t have any DVDs growing up and only ended up watching ones that was halfway through when flipping through channels on the occasions he did got to watch TV.

“I don’t know anything about movies,” he says to Mr. Wayne, pulling out a DVD and studying it.

“Well, kids like Disney movies-“

“I’m not a kid!” Jason snaps.

“I meant Disney movies are popular, that’s all,” he explains calmly. He’s relaxed in the couch, dressed in sweats with the bowl of steaming mac and cheese in his lap. “If there’s nothing in the shelf that interests you, I could rent one.”

Jason studies the cover of the DVD. A bulky man with sunglasses is holding a big gun, looking grim and serious. ‘SCHWARZENEGGER’ it says on the top in big red letters.

 “If it’s okay with you, then maybe- maybe this one?” he asks carefully and holds the DVD up for the other man to see.

“The Terminator?” he says in surprise. “I haven’t seen that in a while. Sure, put it in.”

Jason takes the disc out of the box and walks over to the DVD player. He bends down to slide the disc in and stares dumbfounded at the boxes. There’s three of them, two black and one silver and they all look the same. Jason hesitantly tries to push a button on the silver box with a circle on it and nothing happens. He tries another button with a triangle on.

“Let me,” Mr. Wayne says gently, and suddenly he’s right behind Jason with his palm out for the disc. Jason gives it to him, avoids looking up in embarrassment and his face flushes hot as he sits down at the opposite end of the couch from Mr. Wayne's seat. When he's finished, he slumps down in the couch again and pushes buttons on a remote until the film begins.

“Oh, almost forgot to turn the lights off.” He gets up but stops midway to the light switch. “Is that okay with you?” 

Jason nods but it’s not, not really, because the TV and the couch made him think of Willis and being trapped in a dark room with a man that could snap his neck without breaking a sweat.

Mr. Wayne sits down again. Jason takes a bite of steaming macaroni covered in gooey cheese. He made this himself so he doesn’t need to wait for Mr. Wayne to check it for poison.

“Mm. Hot,” he says and blows on his fork. “But this is amazing. You have to teach me how to make this. It really is good, probably the best macaroni and cheese I’ve ever eaten.”

 _There it is again. That…_ praise _. For nothing,_ Jason thinks. It makes him squirm uncomfortably in his spot and Jason makes a face in the dark, one that Mr. Wayne doesn’t see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to start adding the days or else I'm losing where I am in the story lmao


	6. Payback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce can't get anything out of Jason unless he reveals some things of his own. But at least, they find common ground.

BRUCE

Friday

 

Bruce closes his laptop and collects the papers that had gathered in a stack at his side. He’d been having a video conference with Lucius where they discussed the future of Wayne Enterprises, possible acquisitions of smaller companies to branch out and three business proposals Bruce had been approached with at the gala last Friday. He’d been spending hours at the office, stuck in meetings and talking to people and signing papers and whatnot.

Normally Bruce would leave it to Lucius, but even he insisted it would be good for Bruce to be involved in the bigger decisions, for the company’s future and to create a good, confident image of Wayne Enterprises, which would make the boards happy and would make them lay off of Bruce and not breathe down Lucius’ neck. Now that most of the public, image-stuff was over, Bruce could retreat to his study and work from home. And let his bruises and bad ankle heal without interruptions. 

Alfred had scolded him for going out like this and for being that careless. Not out loud, of course, but in that way with a closed mouth and a side-eye only Alfred could do. And he was right. As usual. Bruce had been careless. For the past days, Batman had been working a small and seemingly simple murder case that eventually unveiled a larger smuggling case involving Penguin.

Doing research and interrogations had taken longer than without a partner. Not to mention the times it was 20 against one. And he was sloppy. No one was watching his back anymore. Batman had lost that edge Robin gave him. With Robin, he had someone he needed to protect, to look out for. It sharpened him and forced to stay alert at all times. Robin was gone and he had become sloppy and alone.

Dick had said once they were the ultimate dynamic duo while sitting on his shoulders and pushing bat-ears back and forth like controlling a joystick.

“No one’s better than the two of us, Bruce!”

“Codenames, Robin.”

“Batman and Robin, the dynamic duo. We should have our own TV show! It’d be bat-tacular!”

“That’s not a word.”

“Bat-toulous!”

“Robin…”

“The bat-tonishing! The bat-tastic! Dynamic Duo!” He fakes the sound of a crowd cheering. Bruce failed to keep in a chuckle.

Thinking about old times leaves a bitter taste in Bruce’s mouth. Four years later and they were screaming at each other every time they were in a room together. Then Dick had left. Packed up his things and disappeared out of the Manor without looking back. Bruce didn’t want it any other way. Dick had become too defiant, too stubborn to obey orders any more. So he got fired. The dynamic duo didn’t last long.

Three knocks on the door snaps Bruce out of a sour trip down memory lane. His knuckles have turned white, so he relaxes his grip on the now crumpled paper he’s holding and unclenches his jaws.

“Come in,” he says, a bit harsher than he meant. He expects the elderly, British butler to enter and ask if he perhaps would be interested in a cup of coffee or maybe tea, and if wasn’t time to call Dick to ask how he’s doing, to which Bruce would mutter an excuse and say no. Instead, the door swings open and a young boy with suspicious eyes peeks in carefully. 

“Oh, hello,” Bruce says in surprise.

“Hello,” Jason replies. “Can I come in for a sec? I have to talk to you about something.”

Bruce nods, and Jason enters his study, leaving the door open. He sits down in the chair opposite Bruce’s desk while he studies (or memorizes?) Bruce had noticed his observational skills were sharper than the average persons) at the different objects in Bruce’s study; books, papers, pictures, medals, old figurines and the antique grandfather clock that led down to the Batcave.

“Is everything okay?” Bruce asks, worried.

Jason tears his gaze away from a silver figurine of an owl on one of the bookshelves and looks at Bruce with a surprisingly steady gaze.

“Yeah, everything is fine. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Okay. What?” Bruce shifted in his seat, preparing for the worst and feeling a tad anxious.

“The suit you bought for me. Was it – was it expensive? Like, _very_ expensive?”

“Oh, uhm –“ Bruce says, slightly taken aback by the question. And a little relieved, if he is being completely honest. With Jason it’s never what he expects. “I…can’t really remember and I didn’t think to look at the price tag.”

“But if you had to take a guess,” Jason pushed.

“Hmm…maybe two or three thousand?”

A little colour disappears from Jason’s face and he presses his lips together to a thin line. He swallows before he drags something out of his pocket, which he then puts on Bruce’s desk.

“This is for the tiepins I stole and then sold. I got 500 for them, so this is yours, technically.”

Bruce stares at the crumpled up dollar bills, some with tears in them and one with a few drops of blood on it.

“I’m sorry I stole them and sold them. And this-“ Jason says, “-this is for the suit, and even though it’s not enough, it’s-it’s all I have.” Jason puts a second handful of crumpled up bills next to the first pile. “Together it’s about 1500 dollars. I can work for the rest." 

It takes Bruce a few seconds to manage to speak. “Jason,” he says slowly. “The suit was a gift. You don’t _owe_ me anything.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “Yes, I do. I owe 3000$ and I only have 1000$. If you give me some time I can get the rest.”

“No, Jason,” Bruce says patiently, trying not to crumble under the boy’s gaze. “A gift means something – an item or goods – given freely without the expectations of giving something back.”

“I know damn well what a _gift_ is but I still owe you, so just accept the fucking cash already!” Jason blurts out and shoves the pile of cash against Bruce. He slumps back down into his seat and crosses his arms, glaring at Bruce. Bruce had forgotten how stubborn Jason could be, a trait that showed itself at the oddest times. And if not for the context of the situation, Jason’s pout would be adorable.

Bruce sighs and shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry, but I’m not accepting payment for anything, in any way, shape or form.”

“Why not?” Jason shouts and throws his hands up in exasperation.

“I don’t want it,” Bruce says simply. “I don’t need it.”

Jason sighs and shakes his head slightly. “You’re so weird.”

Bruce chuckles. “Hm. I’ve been called a lot of things but never weird.”

There’s a minute of silence where Bruce looks at Jason who looks anywhere but him. Finally, he asks, “So… can I… I can keep it?”

“Yes, it’s yours.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“I’m absolutely sure. One hundred and ten percent.” Bruce holds his right hand up like he’s taking a pledge in court.

“Okay,” Jason says in relief. He leans forward and takes the money off Bruce’s desk and puts everything back into his pockets, folding them more carefully this time. “Then it won’t be long after all,” he mutters quietly to himself with a soft smile lurking in the corners of his mouth.

“Long before what?” Bruce asks in what he hopes is a casual tone hiding his curiosity. Jason had been tight-lipped with his words (to put it mildly) and now a chink in the armour had revealed itself. If Bruce played his cards right, he could unravel a little piece of Jason Todd.

The boy in front of him stiffens a bit and the smile tugging the corners of his mouth disappeared.

“Nothing,” he replies quietly. He looks down and leans back in his chair, looking tired.

“Are you saving up to something?” Bruce suggests lightly. His mind races, trying to think what Jason possibly could be saving up to, something in the foreseeable future that would cost just a couple thousand dollars. An apartment? Some type of clothing? A train or flight ticket to a different city?

“It’s _nothing_ ,” Jason snaps.

Bruce sighs, annoyed with himself for asking the wrong question and for not getting anywhere. On the other hand, it’s something new. Maybe he could get somewhere another time and help Jason to meet his end goal. Bruce returns to stacking and sorting business papers and contracts and whatnot, letting his thoughts drift off. Jason gets up and walks away.

A soft chuckle snaps Bruce out of his thoughts about meetings and gangs and the dull ache from his ankle, and when he looks up, Jason’s holding a picture in his hands. “You went to Gotham Academy? I mean, that’s the Academy uniform, right?” He turns the photo so Bruce can see.

“Yes, I did. I must’ve been fifteen or sixteen when that picture was taken.”

“Huh. Lucky you,” Jason says with a hint of bitterness in his voice. “What about this one?” He holds up a photo of Bruce and Alfred posing for the photographer, very formal-looking, dressed in suits and with stiff expressions.

“That’s a more recent one. Maybe three-four months ago, actually.” It stung, to see that photo. It should’ve been a third person there. A person who left the Manor a week prior without a word.

Maybe Jason picks up on Bruce’s distaste for that photo because he quickly puts it back and moves on. “Oh, here you’re even younger than me,” Jason says. “These two… They’re the same people in the paintings.” He looks from the photo to the portraits of Thomas and Martha Wayne hanging over the fireplace. In the photo, Bruce, Martha and Thomas are at the beach, the adults dressed in casual summerwear while Bruce sported bright red swimming shorts, sitting on his mother’s hips and poking his tongue out to Alfred the cameraman. Martha is doing the same and Thomas is looking at them and he’s laughing warmly, a laugh Bruce still heard sometimes and would never forget.

“Your parents,” Jason says quietly, as if knowing it’s a touchy subject. Maybe he could read that too on Bruce’s face. Jason, always observant.

He clears his throat. “They are my parents indeed.”

Jason puts the photo back. “Where are they?”

 “They passed away,” he says in a curt voice. “They were shot and killed in Crime Alley.” A slight tremor in his voice slips through his own armour.

“Oh. I think I heard about that. Thomas and Martha Wayne. _The_ Waynes.”

“Yes.”

Bruce returns to shuffling papers – not that he needed to sort anymore, but his hands were shaking slightly at the memory of Joe Chill standing in front of them with the gun pointing at Mother and demanding her pearls and he needed something to latch onto.

“Did they love you?”

“Hm?” is all Bruce can say.

“Your parents. Did they love you?”

Bruce looks up from his hands and at Jason. For a second he thinks it’s a mocking joke, that Jason’s messing with him in a macabre fashion. Then he realizes Jason is being genuine. Not everyone has been loved by parents.

“…Yes, I believe they did.”

“…Did you love them?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“Then I’m sorry it happened.”

“Thank you. That’s kind of you.”

Jason stands still, gazing on the portraits above the fireplace. Martha had her favourite black dress on with a deep rich red lipstick and golden earrings. Bruce remember the day they had their portraits painted. Despite his mother’s black dress, she looked beautiful and bright, like a star. Thomas was in a matching black suit, smiling warmly with his signature moustache Bruce used to pull and make fun of. It was especially mesmerizing when they danced in their matching outfits, like they created a kind of magic that was their own secret. They were always so in love with each other, even when they disagreed, they’d make up, flirt and make the other laugh. Bruce used to think it was gross and he’d make faces, much to Alfred’s amusement.

“It’s a grave.”

“What?”

“The thing I’m saving up to. It’s a grave.”

“I see. For whom?”

“My mom.” He says it quickly and quietly, like he’s ripping off a band-aid.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bruce says sincerely.

Jason nods slightly, his eyes a little blank. “Thanks.”

Bruce wants to ask about Jason’s father. Does he have one? Is he in the picture and if so, where is he? What happened to his mother? He wants to get up and give Jason a hug. Ruffle his hair and pat his back, tell him it will hurt but he will get through this. He sits still and lets the quietness stretch between them. It’s enough for today, he decides. Jason wipes his eyes and Bruce pretends not to see.

“It’s getting late. Want to go to the kitchen and see what Alfred’s cooking up?”

Jason nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with my inconsistent posting. I think this is my favourite chapter I've written so far. Slow burn father and son relationship? I love it.


	7. Strays flock together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out on unexpected League business, Bruce leaves Alfred and Jason alone in the Manor. Jason lets his guard down a little, and alfred sees a side of him he hasn't seen before.

ALFRED

Saturday

About one o’clock on Saturday afternoon, Alfred opens the fridge to see what he needs to but at the grocery store to refill. He’s writing down things they’re running low on; ordinary items such as eggs, milk, various vegetables and fruits, amongst others, while humming merrily. After the fridge, he moves on to other cabinets. 

Last night’s dinner had been unusual. Usually, Alfred would have to come to get Master Bruce and Master separately but this time they came together, both more quiet than usual. Yet he noticed a warmth or perhaps a lack of tension between them that was there before. It seemed that especially Master Jason was less anxious.

Later, Master Bruce had shared a small yet important and significant breakthrough with Master Jason and he had figured out two things (he’s not called the World’s Greatest Detective for nothing!): One was that Master Jason’s mother had passed (God rest her soul) and the second was that Master Jason is saving money to buy her a proper grave and a tombstone. The former heavily implying Jason was an orphan and hadn’t run away or been kicked out. Which was an odd relief Alfred had guiltily felt, that at the very least, the sweet young boy hadn’t been tossed out and gotten a door slammed in his face by cold and cruel unforgiving parents, left alone to the even colder and more cruel streets.

Alfred writes down more items on his list (oats, flour, walnuts) and it puzzles him for a second as to why the list this time is longer than usual for his usual week-trip. Then he realizes it’s due to the young Master. Not only did Master Jason often eat like it would be no tomorrow, but changes had made Master Bruce eat more frequently and healthily too. His meals no longer consisted of some cold leftovers and coffee he’d throw down like a barbarian before going on patrol or to perform his duties at Wayne Enterprises when they occurred, although rarely.

And it warmed this old butler’s heart, to see the positive effect the two good souls had on each other. Their diets becoming normal, Master Jason slowly filling a void in Master Bruce’s life and vice versa even though the lot were oblivious to it. Even more so, seeing how similar they were in terms of personalities was amusing yet frustrating. Both had the combined communication skill of a breadcrumb, had tendencies to be ridiculously stubborn on the oddest things and they even shared some of the same quirks and habits. And of course, the most obvious one being that they both were orphans (or at least seemed like it at the moment, it is still a mystery for both Master Bruce and Alfred where Master Jason’s father is).

Alfred sighs and takes a look at his finished list. It is long, and the trip to the grocery store would usually take half an hour, tops. With this list, it might take one hour, maybe more. And the bags would be many and heavy. Then he has an idea and it doesn’t take long before Alfred is standing outside Master Jason’s bedroom, knocking twice on the door.

“Master Jason? May I enter?”

After a few seconds, Alfred hears a muffled and quiet "Um. Yes," so he opens the door. On the floor, beneath the open window, Master Jason sits with his pillow propped up against the wall with a large book in his lap.

“Good afternoon, Master Jason.”

“Yeah, uh…Right back at’cha,” Master Jason replies a bit awkwardly, not sure how to handle the butler’s politeness and manners. 

The butler smiles heartily at the young boy’s book in his lap. He, unlike Master Bruce and most certainly Master Richard, knew how to _really_ appreciate literature as an art form.

“I have to go to the grocery store and it seems the task will be too large for me to complete quickly by myself. Will you perhaps be interested in helping me?”

Master Jason is taken slightly by surprise.

“You mean we’ll go outside the Manor?”

“Why, yes we will.”

“I mean of course we would – I just meant – am I - am I allowed? To go outside?”

Alfred could feel his own soul leave his body. Forget Master Jason’s communication skills – Master Bruce’s communication skills remained undefeated as the worst in the galaxy. He makes a mental note to give Master Bruce a scolding when he returned.

“Of course you are allowed fresh air.”

“Oh,” Master Jason says, a bit embarrassed. He puts the book down on the floor and stands up to close the window.

“Where’s Mr. Wayne?” he asks.

“He’s on a sort business trip, I’m afraid. He’ll be gone until tomorrow, or maybe even Monday,” Alfred says, which is a lie; Master Bruce – nay, _Batman_ was actually on unprecedented League business for a day or two, a journey Master Bruce reluctantly wanted to make with his newfound responsibility (a choice which Alfred encouraged – Master Bruce had an injured ankle and it would be wise to rest it). Lying for the young Master makes Alfred feel uneasy and gives him a pinch of guilt. Unfortunately, it is necessary at the moment.

“Oh, cool,” Master Jason says. “But the shopping…” He bites his lip, thinking and considering his options. “Mm, I’ll come with you, if I can ask for a favour afterwards.”

“That brings me much joy, Master Jason. And of course, you can ask me anything. 

\---

After a short and quiet ride in one of the many cars the Manor had to offer, Alfred is fetching the shopping cart with Master Jason behind him like duckling, staring around him with his mouth slightly open.

“It’s huge,” he says in awe to Alfred.

“It is indeed, Master Jason,” Alfred smiles.

"I've never seen stores as big as this."

Alfred pushes the shopping cart around between the aisles, retrieving item after item on the list with Master Jason following and occasionally helping fetching items for him. When they’re finished, Master Jason walks beside him, a hand on the shopping cart as if he’s afraid he’ll get lost if he doesn’t hold on to something.

“Are you really buying all of this?” Master Jason peeks at the shopping cart, now full of various vegetables, fruits, meats and more.

“I am, Master Jason.”

“It’s a lot of food.”

“It is indeed.”

“…You don’t to buy all of this for me. I can eat less.”

“Nonsense. A boy like you should eat properly and you do have a healthy appetite, young sir.” Alfred wants to give the young Master a comforting touch, a pat on the back or maybe a hand on the shoulder. He leaves it, thinking about all the moments Master Jason had gone out of his way to make sure he was out of arm’s length – and all those worse times it seemed like he did out of pure habit or without thinking about it. Alfred presses his lips to a thin line. _For shame all parents who makes their children afraid of touch. Human contact is an essential part of life, and no child should ever, ever be afraid of such things._

A while later Alfred has everything crossed off his list and put in the cart, ready to be put on the belt and bagged.

“Before we finish up, is there anything you want to purchase, Master Jason? Anything you want” Alfred asks the young Master who’s leaning on the cart, looking absentmindedly at the cartons of juice.

“Master Jason?” Alfred asks again, and Master Jason jolts up after being deep in thoughts.

“Uhh… No? Or, I mean… Uhm.” A pause. Then he says slowly and carefully, ”I think I have to go take care of something. An errand, I guess. I’ll meet you where the car’s parked.” Then he turns and jogs away, disappearing amongst the other shoppers and aisles of chocolate and toilet paper before Alfred could get a word in. _Very well then_ , Alfred thought, a bit puzzled. For a second he thinks about running after and telling him no, that he’s not allowed alone or that he will not risk Master Jason running away again – but Alfred leaves it, deciding it’s time to show the boy some faith.

He pushes the shopping cart to stand in line, tuning out the chatter of people around him and the never-ending beeps of items being scanned and bagged. Although Alfred trusts Jason to not slip away right under his nose again, he still turns to look after the curly head or any sign of the boy from the direction he went.

15 minutes later, Alfred is loading the bags of food into the trunk of the car (ironically the task he hoped Master Jason would help with and the reason why he asked him to come with in the first place) and cursing slightly under his breath as some of the bags were heavy – a result of neglecting his own work-out routines in favour of assisting Master Bruce with the gala and his recently wrapped-up murder-turned-smuggling case. He closes the trunk of the car and puts the shopping cart back in place, checking his watch. The young Master had been gone for quite a while so Alfred began to feel an involuntarily restlessness.

Master Jason running away on his own volition aside, there is still kidnapping and all the other ways a child could disappear in Gotham and fade away into obscurity. Blocking out horrifying newspaper headlines, Alfred takes a breath, deciding that he’ll wait 10 more minutes before taking action and go search for the boy himself. Just like Master Bruce, Alfred too believed that in some sense, hovering and fussing over Master Jason’s every action would make him panic and feel cornered. And today it presented itself: an opportunity to show the young Master that he is trusted and that he had freedom to do things he pleased without a leash.

Although Alfred had let Master Jason go to take care of the… _errand_ he had, he remained anxious about letting Master Jason wander off alone, not because he had a pattern of sneaking off but also because he is a _child_ , despite his attempts to convince both Master Bruce and Alfred that he is not.

Alfred shifts his weight from one foot to another, squinting at the entrance of the store and sighing. Just a few more minutes. Then, just as Alfred checks the time for the thousandth time, Master Jason almost stumbles out of the doors of the grocery store, carrying what looked to be four bags filled to the brim.

“Oh my,” Alfred says, perplexed. He rushes to Master Jason’s side and offers a hand, which Master Jason’s politely refuses, despite his panting and strained expression.

Again, Alfred steps back and lets the young Master have his space, despite his instinct to pry the bags out of Master Jason to make his task a little easier. When they finally get to the car, Master Jason is breathing heavily and still insists stubbornly on loading them into the trunk himself, despite Alfred’s second offer.

_Is the stubbornness a criteria to catch Master Bruce’s attention? Both Master Richard and Master Jason seems stubborn to the core. Master Bruce sure knows how to pick them._

The butler closes the trunk again.

“Okay, so… that favour. I –I think I need to call it in now, please. Is that okay?” Just like Master Bruce, Master Jason too had his quirks when nervous or uncomfortable. Alfred almost wanted to chuckle at the biting of lips. _It is the curse of being a butler_ , Alfred thinks, _to witness such wonders and keeping them secret._ It was often he had witnessed miracles in the Manor and the instant urge to tell his old army friends about it. Of course he never did, but like the old man he had become, the want to brag about family also grew with him. He had concluded a while ago it was something that came with old age.  

“Of course, Master Jason. Anything you require.”

It turned out the favour was a simple car ride into southern East End, close to Burnley. Master Jason gave directions as Alfred drove, the latter becoming more and more uneasy at every turn. He clenches his jaws at the thought of hanging out in one of the statistically worst part of Gotham, one of the most (if not _the_ most) crime-ridden city in the world. Eventually, Alfred finds a parking spot outside the pale and torn building Jason directs him to. He pulls the keys out of the ignition while Jason jumps out of his seat and slams the door behind him. 

Alfred steps out too and tenses up as he looks around. The street, broad and eerie, is filled with identical grey stone buildings - most of them with smashed or boarded windows, the walls tagged down with swears and the markings of criminal gangs which poorly covered up the various dents of smashed bottles and the occasional burn. The people shuffling down the sidewalks are blending in with the various shades of grey around them, equally as depressed as the neighbourhood they’re stuck in. On the corners of some houses and at the mouths of the alleys in between are homeless sitting or sleeping on the ground covered by newspapers. Further down the street, Alfred could make out a faded neon sign glowing weakly in daylight, beneath stood several women with skimpy clothing and heavy make-up, smoking, as they occasionally stopped a passer-by and flirted with him or her in attempts to lure them inside.  

Alfred is keenly aware they’re sticking out like a sore thumb, with the clean and expensive car and he, dressed in clothing that in this area qualifies as fancy and expensive. Master Jason seemingly noticed as well, because he waves Alfred over to him to help open the trunk.

“Master Jason, I must ask, what exactly are we doing here?” Alfred asks. The trunk swings open with a moan.

“I just have something to take care of,” Master Jason says just as quietly. “You’re really standing out here,” he mumbles. He begins taking out the bags he had bought himself.

“Don’t… look at anyone who’s walking in a group of two or more. If you’re offered anything, refuse it. Ignore it. Even if it’s something as innocent as a pamphlet. Shove valuables in your deepest pockets, shove your hands in there too, then hold them tight. Obviously don’t talk to anyone.”

Once Master Jason is done, Alfred closes the trunk and locks it.

“I’ll be upstairs somewhere. Don’t know how long I’ll be, though. Stay here.” Then Master Jason picks up the bags and begins walking towards the doors of the building they had parked outside of.

“Excuse me young man! Where do you think you’re going?” Alfred protests.

Jason freezes and turns, staring at Alfred wide eyed as the older man strides up to him.

“I might’ve agreed to do a favour for you, Master Jason, but I’ll be damned if I let you wander around in this area alone! Especially with the warnings _you_ just gave me!”

Jason shushed him frantically. “Stop with the- the _britishness_! You’re already drawing attention to yourself. Shit,” Master Jason curses under his breath, and Alfred bites back a comment about language. “There’s a few guys already eyeing you,” Jason mutters. “So keep calm and quiet.”

Although Alfred is disliking this more and more, he heeds Jason’s words. After all, this is Master Jason’s turf, and regardless of Alfred’s personal feelings in the matter, Master Jason knew this area, its people and its rules better than Alfred ever would.

“You’re right. I apologize,” Alfred says and he meant it. The last thing either needed was to get dragged into gang fights. An underfed boy and an elder man out of his depth. Even if they could pack a punch (based on what Bruce had told Alfred, Jason had managed to keep a grown gang member at bay for a while, only interrupted by a panic attack), they’d be the easiest targets in the entire East End.

“I thought it might be the smartest for you to stand here and watch the car. It’s daylight and we’re in the outskirts of East End so we might be lucky,” Master Jason sighs.

“I think that’s a great idea, and normally I would agree. However, I don’t feel comfortable letting you out of my sight here, and even if the car _do_ gets stolen, there’s nothing that won’t be fixed. I’m afraid I won’t leave your side,” Alfred says firmly.

Jason narrows his eyes and then shakes head, clearly given up. Alfred hears “Fucking rich people,” under his breath.

“Ok, ok,” Jason says. “You can come. But you have to do everything I say, or else you’ll scare them and this entire thing _will_ flop.”

Once again Alfred bites back a burning question. Who ‘they’ are is beyond him at this point.

“We have a deal.”

“Good. First things first: Stop calling me ‘Master Jason’. It’s weird.”

“All right. And I’ll ask you once more: Do you require assistance with the heavy bags?”

Jason considers for a second, then he mutters a ‘fine’. Alfred takes two of them. They walk up to the third floor of the old and narrow staircase and enter the hallway. Alfred stops at old yellow police tape in the doorway, which Jason blatantly ignores.

“Is the complex abandoned?” Alfred asks, noticing the first door to his left being ajar.

“Yeah. The building got damaged after a clash between Poison Ivy and Batman a year ago. Parts of the roof collapsed and no one bothered to fix it, so the entire fourth and third floor was abandoned. Then the second floor because it got water damage from rain flooding and then it just abandoned altogether because the Riddler used it as a hideout for some weeks,” Jason explains.

Unlike Master Jason, Alfred peeks inside the one-room apartments – if they could even be called that. The inside of the building matching the outside with its various tones of grey on the walls, covered with dents. The floor is appropriately stained in many places (at least stains are from blood) and here there lies traces of broken glass. What little furniture is left is broken and unusable, like a table missing two legs and a mattress that somebody had gutted.

Master Jason stops and Alfred does the same.

“What is –“

“Shh!” Master Jason shushes.

The door at the end of the corridor is creaking open. At first Alfred thinks it’s the wind or it’s just old – but then he sees movement. A small face with wide eyes peeking through the crack and studying the two, their gaze unmistakably looking for any signs of danger.

“My name’s Jay,” Master Jason says. “This is Mr. Pennyworth.”

Alfred puts on his friendliest face and warmest smile. Master Jason waits a second, before he holds up the grocery bags and says, “We have food and water.”

The child staring at them lets out a barely audible gasp and stares hungrily at the bags. The child stares at Master Jason, then at Alfred again, and then the door is closed. Alfred is about to move forward and knock on it before Master Jason grips his arm and shakes his head.

“Patience,” he mouths and puts the bags down on the floor.

And after a minute, the door opens again, this time wide. A second child steps out - a teenager, really - a tad older and taller than Master Jason. The girl got a brown _ushanka_ on her head, covering her black curls and in her hand, half hidden away by her leg, is an iron pipe. She looks angry, glaring at both of them with hostility in her eyes. After her comes a younger boy, he too ready to fight or run, but a bit more relaxed than the girl. He’s dressed in a thick coat, too thick for spring, and black jeans that looks too big with countless rips and holes. His hands are hidden in his jacket pockets, but Alfred has a nasty feeling he’s hiding a knife or two.

“Who are you?” the girl snarls aggressively.

“I’m Jay.”

“And your friend?”

“His name is Alfred.”

“That doesn’t explain shit.”

“No, but this will,” Master Jason says and pulls out a packed sandwich from one of the bags. He tosses it to the girl who catches with her free hand. She looks at it and narrows her eyes, but before she can ask more questions, Master Jason pulls out a receipt and a newspaper. “This is today’s newspaper with today’s date.” He holds up the front page. “And this,” he continues, “is the receipt, showing everything in these bags were bought today.”

The boy cocks an eyebrow and grabs the sandwich, turning it in hand and searching for a hole in the plastic packaging, searching for any proof of Master Jason lying.

“I got two bags of pre-packed sandwiches, one bag of water bottles and one filled with canned stuff. Do you want it, yes or no?”

The two teens exchange looks, now uncertain of what to do.

“’Cause of you don’t, I’ll leave and take this with me and give it someone else.”

The girl glances at the bags with an uncertain frown and the boy crosses his arms. “How do we know we can trust you? That this isn’t some kind of trap or some shit?” the girl asks a little less hostile.

Jason shrugs. “You can’t.”

That takes Alfred by surprise and makes the boy burst into laughter.

“He’s a street rat, all right!” the boy laughs. The girl huffs and tosses the sandwich back to Master Jason. “C’mon in. Just know we outnumber you and we got weapons.”

The teens walk back inside and leaves the door open. Master Jason grabs up the four grocery bags and turns to Alfred.

“Wait here.”

“Mas- Jay,” Alfred corrects himself, “I told you –“

“I know, but they won’t relax if you’re there. You can wait by the door.”

Then Master Jason marches off and enters the apartment, leaving Alfred in the hall. The door stays open so Alfred closes in but stays out of sight.

Inside he hears the sound of several people, whispering and giggling and shuffling and shifting about. Children, he realizes. Around 10, cramped together in a one room apartment. Did they have furniture? Beds?

Then he hears the teen girl, the one with the _ushanka_ say: “Alright, everyone, listen up. There’s someone here so _shush_.”

Then Master Jason’s voice says: “Uh, yeah. Hi. I’m Jay. I bought some stuff today and I thought you guys might be interested.”

The sound of plastic and movement follows. Alfred imagines Master Jason holding up a bottle of water and a sandwich, which he shows off to the audience.

“We’ve checked, it’s safe,” the boy with the holes in his jeans declares and claps his hands. “Jay here is one of us.”

“How do you know?” a new voice asks. A boy, maybe six or seven. “He’s not looking like one of us, with the clean clothes and all.”

“I have superpowers,” the teen boy replies. “Sorry for keeping it from you but I’m actually psychic _oof_ -“ He falls into a coughing fit.

“Jo is not psychic, he’s a shithead,” the _ushanka_ girl sighs. It sounded like she had hit him in the stomach, and the children giggles.

“Fuck you, Sami,” the boy – Jo – coughs.

She ignores him. “The point is we got dinner for today and for weeks to come. Get in line to get a serving.”

The gang of kids cheer and move about as they get in line.

Alfred listens with a warm heart as the kids get in line and one by one, receive a sandwich by Jason, Jo and Sami. A while later, the butler’s peeking in, looking at the room in front of him. There’s one square window open, letting all musty air out, which also seems to be the only source of light they have. What’s supposed to be the kitchen is missing a fridge, and Alfred can see a bright square on the wallpaper where it used to stand. 

His suspicions are correct; there’s no furniture in the room with the exception of two kitchen counters boarded to the wall. Against the left wall are three mattresses propped up, next to it a pile of blankets. The entire floor is covered by newspapers. In the right corner is a pile of what looks like miscellaneous objects; old toys, small collectibles and more. Some might be of sentimental value, while Alfred suspects its mostly things they’d sell or trade. There’s one other door in the room, leading to what must be the bathroom – a room whose conditions Alfred could well go without imagining.

There’s 11 kids in total, ranging from the age of three or four to at least 17. All with the same hollowed cheeks (some more than others) and dirt in their cheeks and the unevenly cut and dirty hair. They all look exactly like Jason had done when he first arrived at the Manor, mirroring his wide eyes and cautiousness to the foreign.

The girl Sami is one of the oldest, sitting leant against the pale green wall to the left with a four-year old on her lap attempting to feed him a sandwich he isn’t interested in. Next to her sits Master Jason and Jo, both eating.

Even though he’s strictly against eavesdropping, Alfred can’t avoid listening into their conversation.

“So, Jay. What’s up?” Jo asks in-between chewing.

“What’cha mean?” Master Jason replies. Alfred smiles a bit at how thick the boy’s accent had gotten in the blink of an eye. It’s natural, he supposes. His own accent becomes a lot thicker when he himself returned to England.

“Seems you got out. So I mean, what’cha doin’ back _here_?”

Master Jason shrugs. “I’m not out, just cooped up somewhere for the moment.”

“Foster?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“Oof. I remember the last time I was in foster. Ran away after three days.”

“Shut up, Jo. Nobody needs to hear any more depressing shit,” Sami chimes in. “And why won’t you _eat_ , Isaac?” The toddler in her lap shakes his head and hides away in the crook of her neck.

“I’m just trying to get to know our new friend here,” Jo protests.

“Whatever,” Sami rolls her eyes, returning her attention to Isaac.

“You know, it’s the same ol’ same ol’. Got the same story as everyone else,” Master Jason says. “Born and raised in the gutter, parent who was shit. Drugs and shady shit as normal as breathing. The usual.”

Drugs. Criminals. Master Bruce and Alfred had suspected and speculated, but this is the closest to a confirmation he had gotten. The abuse spoke for itself.

“Mm, I get that,” Jo nods.

“How ‘bout you tell the story of your club here? I mean, why’re you all together like this?”

“Well, strength in numbers, right?” Jo grins. “ _Kidding_. You know how adults are, we just sort of started hanging out for warmth, you know, during the nasty winter we had. We traded food and clothes. Y’know. The _usual_. We found this place after a gang fight down the street. Territory shit. The current leader doesn’t give a fuck who lives here as long as it isn’t any other gangs.”

Jason nods, chewing the last crust of his sandwich. “Nice,” he says. Alfred thinks it’s awful.

“I give up,” Sami sighs. She puts the sandwich down and wraps her arms around the toddler Isaac, stroking his hair.

“Is he okay? He looks a bit pale, could he be sick?” Jason leans in and puts his hand on the boy’s forehead, ignoring his protests. “He’s warm.”

“He’s been fussy since yesterday. He doesn’t wanna eat or drink, he has zero energy, runny nose and been real clingy. He might’ve caught a cold.”

Jo shakes his head with a dead serious expression. “No, it’s from the last time Scarecrow fucked around in East End. Who knows what’s in that poison gas of his? What happens to his victims? What diseases does it create? I mean, does it spread like the flu? There are no vaccines for that shit!”

“Shut the fuck up, Jo,” Sami snaps, ignoring Jo’s cackle.

“Ok, kidding, kidding. It’s probably just a cold.”

Alfred hesitates for a second, due to Master Jason’s wishes to stay hidden and not to scare the children, but enough is enough. He clears his throat and steps out of the shadows. Immediately the room turns silent and all eyes turn to him. Jason jumps up and pulls him aside while Sami passes a sleepy Isaac to Jo and follows.

“I told you not to show yourself! I thought we had a deal!” Master Jason hisses.

“I know and I am sorry, Ma- _Jay_.” He turns to Sami. “I must apologize, but I overheard your conversation. I may not be a full-fledged doctor, but I do have some medical skills. If you allow me so, I can take a look at young mister Isaac.”

Sami narrows her eyes. Thinks about it. Then she says, “All right. It’s not like I can afford to cherry-pick.”

Alfred nods and swiftly takes off his coat and folds up his sleeves. He puts on his most relaxed and warm, friendly face again as he approaches Jo with Isaac in his lap.

He smiles at the two, and Jo gives him a stiff smile back. So much for the good atmosphere seconds prior.

“Hello, young mister,” Alfred hums as he kneels down to Isaac. The boy has a head full of curls, even more so than Jason, some of which Alfred brushes aside as he feels his temperature. As he’s working, he hears Sami and Jason whisper behind him.

“Who is this guy anyway?”

“He’s… a friend.”

“He’s a _friend_? He’s old, the fuck kinda circles are ya running in?”

“Fuck off.”

Alfred tries to not smile warmly at Master Jason calling him a friend, even it is just for show and to skip long winded explanations.

“Is he sick? It’s not serious, is it?” Jo asks, a slight hint of worry in his voice.

Alfred smiles. “No, it is not serious. He has a mild cold, that is all.” _Beside the lack of proper nourishment,_ he thinks grimly to himself.  

All of the kids in the room lets out a collective sigh and returns to chattering amongst themselves now that neither stranger nor situation turned out to be dangerous or serious.

“That’s good, right buddy?” Jo pokes Isaac’s cheek and lures out a sleepy giggle from the boy.

Standing up, Alfred says to Sami, “He’ll need rest and fluids. Make sure he coughs and sneezes into his elbow and not hand so no one else will get infected. If his fever gets higher, if he begins vomiting or gets trouble breathing, take him to a doctor. He is still too young for cold medicine so do not give him any.”

Sami nods and goes back to Jo and Isaac. She and Jo begin whispering while she feels Isaac’s cheek.

Alfred sighs and pulls his sleeves down. They’ve been here for half an hour already. Although it’s horrible – nauseating, really – it’s soon time to leave and go back to the Manor. Back to a fully stocked fridge, soft beds, a shower with warm water and more clean clothes than anyone really needs.

Before Alfred can say a word to Master Jason, the boy is approached by two girls, both around seven. “Jay, do you wanna come play cards with us? We have a deck of cards!” the girls shout and before Master Jason gets the chance to respond, they grab his hands and pulls him along to a circle of four other children. Master Jason grins, and the sight makes Alfred almost tear up. It’s the first time he’s seen such a genuine, innocent and happy look on Master Jason’s face.

 _All right_ , he thinks. _We can stay a while longer_.

\---

Two hours later, Alfred and Master Jason is in the car, on their way back to the Manor. Out of pure luck, the car stood where it was without a scratch and with all tires.

(“We’ve been lucky,” Alfred winked.

“It wasn’t luck,” Master Jason said. “It’s too new and fancy. Anyone can tell the owner comes from big money. If you went to the police, they’d start a manhunt for your sake.”)

 Master Jason apologized for staying longer than he planned, and apologized because the groceries in the trunk were probably spoiled by now. Alfred shook his head said it was all right, no worries and that they ought to go back now.

The car ride is in silence, until Master Jason quietly speaks, watching buildings and pedestrians they pass by.

“This is the second car I’ve ever been in.”

“Really?”

“The first one was the Batmobile. I don’t know if it qualifies as a car though. I thought it was a tank when I first saw it.”

His accent gone now, his R’s not as harsh and his T’s a bit softer.

“Master Jason, may I ask how you knew the children would be there?” Alfred asks, in what he hopes is a casual tone. Master Jason breathes on the window and fogs it. He begins drawing thin, horizontal lines on it while he speaks.

“I gave some water to a guy once and I sort of stuck around. We talked a bit and he mentioned the hideout.”

“Oh so you’ve been there before?”

“I stopped by once, but I didn’t stay.”

“May I ask why?”

Master Jason breathes on the window again. Alfred taps the wheel. Had he asked one too many? Jason draws a star this time.

“I met a friend right after and I stuck with her instead.”

_That woman. Hannah Marjorie Carson. Honey. The prostitute who was brutally murdered._

The rest of the car ride is in silence again.

Alfred pulls up to the Manor driveway and parks outside the main doors. He unbuckles his own seatbelt while Mastor Jason stays still, staring at the Manor.

“Is there something the matter, Master Jason?”

“You don’t have to call me Master, you know. If you don’t want to.”

“It’s in the job description, Master Jason,” Alfred smiles. They stay still for a bit longer. Alfred knows perfectly well how young boys looked when they had something they wanted to say, but needed a second to muster up the courage to do so. While Master Bruce would look down and clench his jaw, Master Richard would absentmindedly rub his neck. Master Jason bit his lip, or in this case, looked away.

“Can I ask one more favour?” His voice is quiet, shy, almost.

“Of course, young sir.”

“Can you… not tell Mr. Wayne about today?” Master Jason turns, and there a softness to him that hasn’t been there before and for once, Master Jason does not look like a skeleton, but a young boy who’s a little scared and a little out of his depth.

Alfred throws him a lifeline. “Master Bruce won’t find out,” he says.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Finally, they step out of the car. They load the groceries from the trunk to the kitchen, and Master Jason puts everything where it’s supposed to be while Alfred drives the car to the garage.

“The milk is probably sour now.”

“It might be.”

“Are you gonna throw it away?”

“If it’s sour, then probably.”

“I’ll pay for new milk.”

“That is very kind you, Master Jason, but I assure you, it won’t be necessary.”

The rest of the afternoon, Master Jason is quieter and more attentive than usual, gliding in and out of rooms like a ghost, correcting things and putting them back in place. And for the first time since his arrival, he declines a meal.

“Not thank you, sir. I’m not hungry.”

Before Alfred can utter another syllable, Master Jason scuffles out and disappears again. Whatever progress Master Jason had done, in a blink of an eye, it was lost. Alfred couldn’t really blame him, of course. It was a nasty shock to see the living conditions of the orphans in a broken building abandoned by all, and then return to Wayne Manor, one of the finest pieces of real estate in Gotham City, owned by the wealthiest man in Gotham.

There’s an ugly feeling deep in Alfred’s stomach, one he can’t seem to shake off, one that had slowly grown and taken root since he came back. It struck him first when he opened the gate to the Manor and drove to the door, seeing the large house grow as he came closer while the orphans, all of them, were living in a shoe box. How much unused silverware is in the Manor? How much food had he thrown away, perfectly edible? How many beds, unused? As he was doing laundry, it felt trivial and hollow. He could give away the entire basket of clothes and linens and it would not make a dent in the Manor household.

Alfred knew perfectly well the conditions of the poorer residents of Gotham. A lesser known branch of Wayne Enterprises is devoted to charity and humanitarian work, to fund orphanages, homes for the homeless and soup kitchens. Master Bruce pushed this branch to expand more than any other branch (much to the distaste of boards and investors), and often visited orphanages and the staff, to personally make sure everything is safe and the employees do as they’re supposed to without abusing their power. Alfred too had visited, hearing stories of hunger and sickness and being subjected to inhumane conditions. But the stories were told from a place of comfort and from a place of newfound hope. They were true, he knew that much, but they were _stories_. Now he’d been on the inside and seen a glimpse of lives without hope, lives that didn’t have safety or comfort, lives that didn’t dare to plan more than one day at a time.

Alfred too, had lost his appetite.

The evening comes and goes, and the night comes early. Alfred lies in his bed, having a staring contest with the ceiling. He can’t sleep. Even if he promised Master Jason to not tell Master Bruce, it did not sit right with him to let the children stay where they are. It could quickly be taken care of. Master Jason might not trust him again. They need help, even if neither Master Jason or the orphans themselves denied it. They were sickly, all of them. Starved and cold.

He gets up from his bed and sits at his desk, opening his laptop. He hesitates a second.

_Master Jason might not trust you again. But they need help._

Alfred grits his teeth and begins typing. It wouldn't sit right with him to let it be.

 

_“Dear Miss Lorentz._

_How is your daughter? Is she doing well in college?_

_I am sorry to write this so late, I truly am, but I must pass on this information as fast as possible. It has come to my attention there is a group of children on 35 Peaches Street in East End that desperately are in need of care. The building is grey with a green-ish tint to it, abandoned due miscellaneous circumstances. The children have sought refuge in the third floor, in the innermost apartment._

_The group consists of eleven children from the age of four to sixteen. At least one of them are sick with a cold. They have some food, but at this rate, I doubt it will last long._

_Seeing as you are the head manager of one the largest Wayne orphanages, I hope you might be able to do something to help them._

_However; beware. They are mistrusting and they have weapons, including an iron pipe and perhaps a knife. I have no doubt you will handle them with ease, but please remain careful._

_Kindest regards, Alfred Pennyworth._

 

A few minutes later he hits ‘send’ and closes his laptop, exhaling a bit shakily. He hopes he has done the right thing - no, he _has_ done the right thing, he must have. Miss Lorentz most likely will not see the email until tomorrow morning, and she might not be able to take action immediately, but it is _something_ at least. 

A creak outside his bedroom door, snaps Alfred out of his thoughts. He sees a shadow of someone on the floor and hear the quiet shuffle of someone shifting his weight.

The bedroom door creaks open just a smidge, but it is enough for a pair of nervous, teal eyes to peek in. They first peek at the empty bed, then flutter from the bed to the dresser to the desk, before they meet Alfred’s grey.

“Oh, sorry,” Jason mumbles. “I didn’t know you were here.” He turns to leave.

“Master Jason, can I assist with anything?” Alfred stands up and opens the door. Jason stops and turns, twirling the string on his hoodie.

“I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“It’s very late. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“I see. Me neither.”

Master Jason nods in response and stays still, wrapping the string around his pointer finger. 

Alfred’s mind races. His first instinct is to tell Master Jason to march back to bed and that sleep is important for young boys, but somehow, it doesn’t feel quite right.

Whatever the shock today was for Alfred, it probably felt worse for Master Jason; for a few brief hours he had been able to relax a bit and be surrounded by peers, and now he had returned to a place foreign to him, where he probably felt as out of place as he looked. 

“Then, Master Jason, would you perhaps be interested in a cup of hot chocolate? We could put on a movie.”

“But… it’s in the middle of the night.”

“I won’t mind your company.”

A slight blush forms in Jason’s cheeks. He doesn’t refuse, so Alfred smiles and gives him a wink. “Come along, now. I'll make an exception and make some whipped cream as well.”

Small miracles, truly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that time I said the Gala was the longest chapter? I LIED. This is the longest chapter - and I lost my way halfway through, I got so tired of writing it and I just wanted to be over so I got a bit lazy at the end.   
> Also... as a European I have no fucking clue how grocery shopping works in USA (your stores... so fucking huge... with so much in it...) I had to google and it wasn't very helpful but it doesn't really matter lol.
> 
> Anyway. Thank you for reading to the end!


	8. Uncovered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce comes back from his business trip in an unexpected way. Jason is handy with a first aid kit.

JASON

Day 14 in the Manor

Early Monday morning

 

Jason paces around in his room, his bouncing ball going from hand to hand mindlessly. He could leave the Manor after all. Now that he thought about it, Mr. Wayne had never said he wasn’t allowed outside, just that he had to stay at the Manor for a month. He’d just assumed it X equalled Y and now he wanted to fling himself out the window because of his own dumbassness.

He stops in front of the window and gazes across the Manor gardens and the woods, and it strikes him how much he longs to stretch his legs properly, to get fresh air on his face and in his lungs. He's willing to bet the air out here is be a lot higher quality than the constant scent of piss, trash, smoke, fear and desperation in Park Row. Over the pine trees, a glimpse of early morning sun peeks through.

Jason stops pacing and changes into some warmer clothes, grabbing his headphones and his discman with the Fleetwood Mac CD in it. He opens his door carefully, and peeks down the hall, knowing full well that this time, no one would be there. Mr. Wayne is still on his business trip and the butler is fast asleep.

With a newfound excitement, Jason almost skips down the hall and down the stairs. He’d be back before Mr. Pennyworth got up in a few hours and no one would know; it'd stay just his little secret.

Jason had always loved the mornings the best. Right before sunrise, everything would be quiet and serene. Morning in Gotham was the limbo hour; right after the nightlife had died out and before morning traffic started. A window of mindfulness. Jason made it a habit to see the sunrise often so that he had a view when eating breakfast and a small reminder that there were some pretty things left in the miserable hellhole. 

He jumps down the last two steps and lands with a satisfying yet quiet  _thud_. Before his shoes on, he decides to scurry to the kitchen and bring a pack of snacks or something with him to munch on. The Manor is as quiet as it always is, if not more. It’s almost like he’s doing something illegal, out of bed during night hours and sneaking off somewhere without telling. It’s a thrill and it crawls on his skin like electricity.

The fridge doors open with a creak and Jason scans the shelves for something satisfactory until the silence wrapped around him like a blanket, is broken with a loud bang. Jason almost jumps out of his skin at the clang and turns his head, trying to pinpoint the noise. There’s another, softer sound this time, and then a voice.

Is someone breaking in? Because that would be just his goddamn luck, that someone would break in when no one but Jason awake. After a minute of being frozen in place and debating with himself, Jason decides to see what it is despite knowing the smartest thing is to turn and walk away. One day he’ll defy his instincts to run one too many times and he’d end up dead. It might be this time. Killed by thieves in Wayne Manor. Honestly? Not the worst way to go.

Jason closes the fridge door. Moving along the wall as silently as he can, he follows the sounds down the hall. Based on what he can hear, there’s only one man, and he’s… in Mr. Wayne's study? Jason stops outside the door, and hears the man curse and hiss through gritted teeth through the gap in the door. Another soft thud.

Jason straightens up and forces his muscles to relax before he taps on the doorway and opens the door a bit wider. Upon seeing Jason, Mr. Wayne looks surprised and disappointed. Jason remembers what Mr. Pennyworth said when they met the others in East End.

_I may not be a full-fledged doctor, but I do have some medical skills._

It seems those medical skills extended to taking care of flesh wounds, because judging on the blood, Bruce needed someone with medical knowledge. So the butler also played the role of doctor, nursing Mr. Wayne back to health whenever he got hurt.

Mr. Wayne leans on his desk with one arm. The other held a needle and thread, ready to stitch, or at least attempt to stitch together the bleeding stab wound in his side. On the floor are sheets of paper, the ones Bruce had been so meticulously sorting a few days before, and it almost makes Jason snort; what’s the point of sorting all of these things if you’re just gonna knock them over at the first stab wound? Look, some even has blood on them now.

“Why are you up? You should be in bed,” he finally says, and he attempts to straighten up but he winces and holds his arched posture.

Jason shrugs. _Insomnia, nightmares, wanted to take a walk_ , he thinks. _Plenty of reasons._ _Take your pick._ “Couldn’t sleep,” he says.

The lights are dimmed in the study, and it makes Bruce look darker and more unreadable than he usually is, and his scars, callouses and blisters are like canyons in the dramatic light, deep and rippling and jarring at the same time. For a second Jason wanted to poke and prod, to know the story behind each of them – like his own, they all had stories. Mr. Wayne bore marks of bullets, knives and burns, and if Jason didn’t know any better, acid. A red flag if he had ever seen one. He should leave. Right now. Not even go upstairs to get his stuff. Just excuse himself and bolt immediately.

The man tries to straighten up again, and fails, again. The red blood trickling through his wound and dripping down his side morbidly bounced off yellow light from the lamp. 

“Where’s Alfred?” Mr. Wayne hisses through gritted teeth.

“He’s in bed. Sleeping.” Like normal people do. It’s five in the morning after all.

“He’s usually up.” Mr. Wayne grabs a washcloth on the desk and holds it against the wound in what had to be the most half-assed attempt to cover up Jason had ever seen.

“He…got a cold,” Jason admits, shifting a bit. He did feel guilty about that. It was a small one that Mr. Pennyworth had gotten from when he examined Isaac. To make up for it, Jason made sure to leave less messes after him and do whatever he could to make chores easier. For the remainder of his time in the Manor, he’d eat less and help with chores. 

“I see,” the man grunts. He sinks down in the chair Jason sat in the last time he was here, and pries the washcloth from the wound. “You should go to bed,” he says. The tone is calm enough but it’s persuasive, and and there’s an order underneath it. A little out of spite, Jason stands where he is and crosses his arms. Mr. Wayne is less likely to come for him now that he’s bleeding all over the place.

Mr. Wayne reaches around with the thread and needle and Jason can tell it’ll be botched. He can turn and leave. Slip out and get away, start somewhere new. Find Sami and Jo and the others and stay with them for a while.

“You’re gonna get fucked up stitches if you do it from that angle,” he points out lightly. One day. One day he’d ignore his instincts one too many times.

MR. Wayne looks up and furrows his brows. “You know how to do sutures?”

“I’d be fucked if I didn’t know how to do sutures.”

The man's expression softens a bit and he puts the needle down in his lap. “That’s a terrible thing to know.”

Jason tilts his head and wrinkles his brows. It’s not a terrible thing to know how to sew wounds and stitch up flesh. It’s a lifesaving skill. A pretty necessary one to boot. “If you want, I can help you,” Jason offers. “The stitches, I mean.”

Mr. Wayne peeks at him. If there’s anything he could do like no other, maybe even better than the butler, is to make Jason feel like he’s under a microscope.

“Or I can just get Mr. Pennyworth?”

“No, let him sleep. I’m… taking you up on your offer.” He holds out the needle for Jason to take. “Make them look good.”

 

***

 

“Ready?” Jason asks breathlessly. The needle holder and tissue forceps hovers above bloody skin. Maybe he’d been too cocky, offering to do stitches. He can’t stop his fingers from shaking a little too much and he hasn’t done stitches in a long time… what if he mucked it up? Anything less than perfect would be unacceptable, and even then he could receive a slap across the face. Mr. Wayne sits with his arm raised in the air and the other holding a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“Ready,” he replies. 

Jason lifts the upper skin flap with the tissue forceps and pushes the needle and thread through it, trying to ignore Mr. Wayne's sharp inhale as much as he could. Jason meticulously continues to push the needle through the skin, only occasionally stopping to wipe away drops of blood. He can feel eyes staring at him, studying him under the microscope.

“You’re not going to ask?” Mr. Wayne says.

“About?”

“Why I’m returning from a business trip with a bleeding wound? Where have I been? Why do I have so many scars?”

“Do you want me to?”

 “I suppose not,” he sighs. “But I’d like to ask you.”

Jason stays quiet, focusing on the thread staying in place. Mr. Wayne turns his head again and his gaze is burning holes in Jason’s skull. “Where did you learn to do this?”

A pause.

“Did you have any family members who worked in medicine? I know your mother passed away, so your father, perhaps?”

Jason can’t help it; a loud _“Ha!”!_ escapes him. The idea of Willis being a saint, dedicating his time to save the sick and innocent is downright laughable.

“No, not him,” Jason chuckles grimly. “I just learned it at one point, I can’t remember when,” he lies. 

It’s was a long time ago. Willis and two of his friends or colleagues or whatever came to the apartment one night when Catherine was working a late night shift. One of the guys was bleeding badly. The other had two broken fingers – coincidentally also the only one with medical knowledge. Willis grabbed Jason by his collar and ordered him to follow the instructions of the man with the broken fingers while Willis kept watch. Jason did. The rest of his and Catherine’s medical supplies was used for a deep stab wound, cuts and mending the broken bones of strange men, and when he was done, Willis locked him in the bathroom and were gone by morning. Jason remembers the sting of knuckles on his nose when he tried to say no, that those bandages belong to mom and you can’t take them.

Mr. Wayne doesn’t ask any more questions and a few minutes later, Jason is done. He ties the thread together and cuts off the leftover thread.

“There,” he exhales. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, leaving him hungry and a little ecstatic; those are the first stitches he’s done in a while, and honestly? They look good.

He puts down his tools and takes a step back as Mr. Wayne stands up and carefully feels the stitches. “Simple running sutures,” he smiles gently. “A bit uneven, but they’re well done. Nice work.”

The last time he had given that praise was for something dumb (the macaroni and cheese), something everybody could do and Jason had recoiled from the words because they were condescending and mocking. Now, Jason had done something important and he had done it _well_. The words dance in the air and feels warm. Jason tries to say a thank you, but it comes out as a hoarse cough instead.

Mr. Wayne stands with his back turned, not paying attention to Jason’s red face. He uncorks the bottle of rubbing alcohol and pours some on a tissue. “Just going to clean it one last time,” he explains before he pushes the cloth down on his red skin.

“Ok. I’ll be leaving then.” Jason mumbles and backs out the door.

Mr. Wayne turns to him, a look of worry on his face. He opens his mouth and closes it again, not sure of what to say. Finally out of the man's sight, Jason swings to the right and jogs back to the kitchen where he grabs an apple. Then he’s in the hallway, putting on his shoes and his headset. He unlocks and opens the front door to feel the fresh and cool morning air on his face, and he closes it behind him, before anyone grabs him and hauls him back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters from now on will be a bit shorter (between 2000-3000 words) because it really takes it out of me to write longer ones. There might be longer chapters in the future but not often.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> EDIT: I've also made second Tumblr where I'll post updates -> @cyberpunkblues


	9. There and nowhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So what about you and Jason? What did you guys do this weekend?” 
> 
> Bruce pours two cups from the pot and breathes in the smell of freshly made coffee. Nothing could beat it. 
> 
> He pushes some of the bacon over to two plates along with two eggs each, before bringing the plates and the cups to the kitchen table where he sits down opposite of Alfred.

BRUCE

Monday morning

 After Jason left, Bruce cleans up the used paper towels and the medical kit as best as he can and gets dressed again, carefully pulling a shirt down to not rip Jason’s stitches. _So some knowledge of medicine as well. Not a good relationship with his father,_ Bruce concludes.

And maybe Alfred had something new to share; if anyone could make Jason drop his guard it would be him. After he’s done cleaning up after himself to the best of his ability, he heads upstairs to get a few hours of sleep before breakfast. 

***

He wakes again when the sun is high and the clock tells him it’s 9AM. A faint smell of bacon tells him Alfred is up and already cooking breakfast. Bruce curses and heads downstairs, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He opens the door to the kitchen to find the butler over a pan of sizzling bacon.

“Oh, Master Bruce. You’re back,” Alfred smiles. His voice is a little hoarse and he looks a bit tired, but that’s all, thankfully.

“Alfred, you didn’t have to cook breakfast, Jason told me you have a cold.”

“And you neglected to share you returned from your League business. How was it?”

“In my defence, I came back in the middle of the night and went straight to patrol.”

Bruce plants two steady hands on Alfred’s shoulders and guides him away from the stove and onto a chair.

“Alfred, please sit and rest. I’ll make some coffee.”

“It’s a simple cold, Master Bruce, and –“

“And if it were me, you’d tell me to rest. And League business was fine. We just held some meetings.” Bruce stirs the bacon and eggs and puts on a pot of coffee.

“All right, I see your point. I concur. And I’m glad. I worry when you’re doing God knows what in space.” Alfred sighs and folds his hands in front of him.

“So what about you and Jason? What did you guys do this weekend?” Bruce pours two cups from the pot and breathes in the smell of freshly made coffee. Nothing could beat it. He pushes some of the bacon over to two plates along with two eggs each, before bringing the plates and the cups to the kitchen table where he sits down opposite of Alfred.

“We went shopping for groceries. And then…Hm. I can share that I now know a possible reason for Master Jason’s mother’s passing.”

“Oh,” Bruce says, a bit perplexed. He had hoped Jason had opened up some more but to this extent was surprising. “How…?” Bruce gestures with his fork.

“Please note this is pure speculation, but I believe it was a drug overdose.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Statistics. That, and Master Jason mentioning drugs and criminal activity as part of growing up, the most specific we’ve heard thus far. Not that it should come as a surprise, considering where he came from.”

“I see,” Bruce nods.

Alfred smiles, “You’re polite, Master Bruce. You have probably deduced as much a long time ago, no?”

Bruce chuckles. “I’ve…had some theories, and I know you’ve had some too. But good to get confirmation. Did you ask him about this, or did he say this out of his own will?”

“You give me too much credit, Master Bruce. He told someone else. I simply overheard.”

“Really?” Bruce asks. “Family? Friends?” As far as he knew, Jason had neither.

“I would call them peers. Associates. Perhaps friends.” Alfred takes a sip of his coffee and holds the cup to warm his fingers.

“Well, tell me what happened. I’m curious,” Bruce says.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the details of the weekend will remain a secret between Master Jason and I until he decides otherwise,” Alfred winks and smiles into his cup.

“Hm,” Bruce huffs and tears into a strip of bacon. He wouldn’t say he’s a fan of that, but he isn’t the fish out of water. If Jason did (hopefully) decide to talk about himself, he needed to do so on his own terms, when he was ready.

“Where is Jason, anyway? He’s usually early to breakfast.”

“I don’t know, sir. You’re the one who spoke to him last.”

“I’ll find him.” Bruce stands up, about to leave and call the young boy in for breakfast.

“Wait a second, Master Bruce. You said you came home from patrol a few hours ago. When did you speak to Master Jason, exactly?”

“Oh,” Bruce swallows. Alfred is going to have his head for this. “I, uh. May have been searching for you in the need for sutures. Jason found me instead.”

“He _found_ you? Where?”

“In the study. I was trying to do my own stitches and Jason offered to do them instead.”

Alfred’s mouth turns to a grim line.

“…I accepted,” Bruce adds quietly.

Alfred’s eyebrows shoot up. “I beg your pardon, sir? Not only did he see you with wounds from patrol, but you had him do your sutures?”

“He’s actually quite good at it, he-“

“That is not my point, Master Bruce!” Alfred stands up. “That boy has been exposed to enough violence and the last thing he needs is to see more of it. Tell me, did he even react at the sight of blood?”

Bruce looks away in shame. “No. He didn’t.”

Alfred rubs the bridge of his nose. “And how did you explain your injuries? I can’t even imagine what stories you came up with, as if the child needs more lies and mistrust in his life.”

“I…didn’t.”

“I’m sorry?” Alfred looks almost offended at his words.

“He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know. And I didn’t want to make up any stories to him, because I agree, he’s already mistrusting enough and he doesn’t need any more lies. So I just didn’t say anything. 

Alfred sits back down and sighs. “At least that’s something. Maybe.”

“And I have reasons to believe Jason’s father is the other element. If his mother did drugs, then his father was probably criminally active.”

“Do share how you figured this out, Master Bruce.” Alfred’s hands are clasped firmly around his cup again.

Bruce stands still for a second before he succumbs to Alfred’s request and sits back down.

“He didn’t ask me anything, but I asked him. I wanted to know where he learned to do sutures. He didn’t reply, so I asked if it was a family member. His mother had passed, I knew that, so I suggested his father. He laughed at the idea, suggesting strong dislike, possibly even hatred or despise. Jason didn’t even speak his name. I didn’t expect him to say ‘father’ or ‘dad’, but maybe ‘my old man’ or his name. He just alluded to his father as ‘him’. Very spitefully so too.”

“I see,” Alfred says. A beat of silence. “I apologize for snapping, Master Bruce,” Alfred says softly.

“It’s nothing to be sorry for.” Bruce gives Alfred a pat on the upper arm.

The sit in silence for a bit, until Alfred chuckles and asks, “Do we have anything else we want to share about Master Jason? Seeing as he gives us each different pieces of the puzzle at different times.”

Bruce laughs, leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. “No, I don’t think I have anything more. So, to summarize: his mother passed. Possibly due to an OD; we don’t know for sure. His father was a criminal; we don’t know for sure. We don’t know if the father in question alive or dead. He most certainly suffered emotional or physical abuse or both, but we can’t tell for sure if that’s from family or from being homeless or both. We don’t know how long he’s been homeless either,” Bruce counted on his fingers.

“So we don’t really know anything for sure?” Alfred says amused. “What a boy. If he wanted to, he could surpass the Riddler.”

“Well, we know some things for sure. He loves reading. More than anyone I have ever met, maybe including you. He makes the meanest mac and cheese. He can do sutures. He’s incredibly clever. He’s seen at least one of the Terminator movies.”

“Compassionate to his core,” Alfred hums and Bruce agrees.

“Knows how to fight,” Bruce adds, and Alfred’s smile fades a bit.

They sit in silence for a minute again, both thinking about how many situations Jason had endured to teach himself to fight and to be able to use a knife like a trained adult.   

“I should take a look at your wound, to be sure,” Alfred murmurs.

Bruce stands, pulling his shirt up so Alfred can see. He leans in and squints, letting his finger run across the stitches before he nods in satisfaction and says, “They are good. A little uneven, but considering the circumstances, they are really well done. And your ankle, Master Bruce? How is it?”

“It’s fine. I can walk on it, and I plan to take it easy for today, at least.”

“At least,” Alfred mutters sarcastically.

Bruce chuckles and leaves Alfred alone to get Jason to come eat from wherever nook or cranny he had cozied up in with his nose buried in a classic piece of literature. He ponders what Jason was reading now, since he seemingly had a new one every time Bruce found him.

He wanders through the library, only to come up empty. The door to Jason’s bedroom door upstairs was halfway open when Bruce walked past it earlier and Jason always closed it, so he wasn’t there either.

 _I’ll be leaving now._

Bruce runs upstairs and pushes Jason’s bedroom door open, only to find it empty and he does the same with the bathroom. He jogs down the corridor and shouts Jason’s name. To be sure, he checks the attic as well, which is frustratingly empty, despite all of the miscellaneous items up there. 

“Alfred!” he shouts down the hallway, heading back to the kitchen. Jason had run away again. He’d done it again, and Bruce had let him. His things were still in his bedroom – Jason could’ve left without them or only grabbed his most essentials and disappeared back to Gotham, just taken a handful of what he needed and - oh God, Bruce had let it happen _again_.

“Alfred!” he shouts again and runs down the stairs, his own ankle be damned.

“Jason’s gone.”

Alfred looks up at him from his newspaper and blinks.

“I’m sorry?”

“Jason’s run away again.” Bruce’s mind races. He saw Jason a few hours ago, how far could he have gotten? And he has to check the security cameras, see where he went and –

“Are you certain, Master Bruce?” Alfred stands up and all traces of a cold replaced with concern and seriousness.

“I-“

The sound of a door slamming interrupts Bruce. There’s a pause, and then there’s the sound of shuffling footsteps coming closer and closer, until Jason enters the kitchen and stops at the sight of Bruce and Alfred staring at him with wide eyes. Around his neck is a headset connected to an old and torn Discman stuffed in the front pocket of his hoodie.

Jason looks from Alfred to Bruce, and says, “…What?”

Both Bruce and Alfred exchange dumbfounded glances in silence, before Bruce clears his throat and asks in what he hopes is a casual tone, “Where were you? I called you for breakfast.”

“I went for a walk in the woods,” Jason shrugs, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why?” The question comes out sharper than Bruce means it to, and Jason’s gaze flickers away. “I just wanted some air,” he mumbles.

“Which he is allowed to do, Master Bruce,” Alfred points out and gives Bruce a warning glare. He walks past Bruce and hands Jason a plate. “There’s bacon and eggs for you on the stove. Do you want anything to drink?”

Bruce turns his back and sits down to calm himself. Jason is allowed outside, of course. Just again, like at the gala, there was that split second of not _knowing_ if Jason was still here, if he was all right and if he was safe. Bruce leans forward and supports his elbows on the table surface, rubbing his eyes. He’s still tired. Perhaps a bit jet-lagged. Dick did the same thing as Robin. Suddenly he could be gone from Bruce’s sight and it was a nightmare, every time. What if he had gotten hurt? Killed?

Jason walking on the Manor premises is safer, of course, but what if one day it wasn’t? Someone dangerous could trespass to rob the Manor or to kidnap him, keep him for ransom. Jason could walk off the path in the Manor Woods and get lost. The woods were thick and one could easily stray off the path and get lost if not known in the area, and there’s a steep hill one easily fall down if not careful, especially in darkness. What if he fell and hurt himself? Got lost and never found again?

Bruce takes a breath. Jason sits down a seat away from him with a modest plate of food on it, only one roll and two strips of bacon. He starts eating and Alfred sits down opposite him, returning to reading his paper. Bruce can’t think of anything to say. _How was your walk? Where did you go? Want to go hiking together sometime? I didn’t know you listened to music, what do you listen to? I didn’t mean to imply that I was accusing you of anything. I’m not accusing you._ _Please let me know next time. You scared me._

Adding on to the pile of stress and frustration, his ankle is throbbing slightly – and it’s as if Bruce is sending ripples through water. Jason picks up on his mood like a radio tuning in to radio signals.

And Bruce notices Jason does what he always does when there’s a shift in his surroundings; he stops eating and instead pushes the bacon back and forth nervously and quietly, not looking up. And Bruce hates that. How Jason’s is so sensitive to the people around and their moods, and at the faintest whiff of instability or danger, he shrinks into himself to make himself smaller and less of a threat.

 _It’s not you_ , Bruce wants to yell, grab Jason’s shoulders and shake them. _It’s me and my bad mood, not you. It’s not you, never you or your fault. Someone made you think like this and it’s not right._

Since his mother (most likely, almost certainly) did drugs, how many times did Jason see her consume whatever she took? How many needles of heroin did she inject? How many lines of cocaine? And his father. _Him_. A word spoken with utter distaste. How violent had he been? How dangerous? How many times had he made Jason bleed and feel fear?

A fury he'd felt a lot lately bubbles in his stomach again and Bruce taps his foot, a habit he thought he’d stopped long ago. When Alfred lowers the newspaper and gives him a questioning look, Bruce excuses himself from the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So the end begins.


	10. Faceless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only sound he can hear is the metallic tapping of the stick he picked up earlier against the mesh fence on his left. “Hello?” he shouts again for the millionth time into the great nothing. The darkened, grey streets are just as empty as the buildings and shops around him, showing no signs of life. Streetlights hum above his head, shining a warm yellow down at him, blinding him from seeing the black sky above.

JASON

 

He feels the cold, wet asphalt beneath his bare feet as he walks through the streets. He’s looking for something he can’t remember what or where is. So he walks without purpose, aimlessly wandering the streets until he knows where he’s supposed to go.

The only sound he can hear is the metallic tapping of the stick he picked up earlier against the mesh fence on his left. “Hello?” he shouts again for the millionth time into the great nothing. The darkened, grey streets are just as empty as the buildings and shops around him, showing no signs of life. Streetlights hum above his head, shining a warm yellow down at him, blinding him from seeing the black sky above.

“Anyone, anyone at all?”

He skips across the street and jumps over a puddle before he turns right into a broad street. He peeks into the parked cars and upon finding nothing and no one, he flicks stones on the windows to watch them shatter and fall to the ground. When out of pebbles and stones, Jason sighs and continues walking. He tosses the stick behind him, bored with it and in search for something else to play with. After a few meters, he stops and frowns. 

Did the stick land? He wants to turn and look, to see it on the ground where it should be and get confirmation that he just misheard or something, but he’s frozen and he can’t turn around. He can’t move at all. A chilliness settles in the air and creeps up his spine, making the hair on his neck stand. He exhales and he can see his breath in front of him. And there’s someone watching him, hidden away out of sight.

“Hello?” Jason asks again, a little quieter this time, and hoping that his voice doesn’t give away how frightened he had gotten.

Suddenly there’s a loud _PANG._ The lightbulb in the streetlight farthest away from him explodes and Jason yelps as the shards of glass turn to dust and nothing but a spot of pitch black remains.

“What the-“

A second pang. A second light blows out. Is someone shooting them?

He can barely think of logical possibilities before all of the lights in the street blows up in an ear-deafening boom, drowning out Jason’s scream.

“What the fuck? What the _fuck_?” he yells. The only light there is the one directly above him and as grateful he feels for the comfort and sight it provides, it’s also a spotlight, a neon sign pointing to him and screaming ‘ _Here I am! Come get me!’_

Adrenaline pulsates in his veins, making his breathing fast and beads of sweat form on his forehead despite the cold. He looks around him as much as he can without moving his head, his eyes hopping from point to point, trying to make out anything in the blackness and he listens for anything that moves.

There’s a swoosh of a cape behind him, as loud as a car alarm in the silence, followed footsteps, heavy footsteps, approaching Jason slowly. “No,” Jason whispers. “No, no.”

The man stops behind him and Jason feels menace oozing from him, along with a familiar scent he had known long ago.

“Leave me alone,” Jason says breathlessly.

Hands heavy as bricks find their place on his shoulders, digging into his flesh. A deep, familiar and jarring voice rasps, “Where have you been, boy?”

It’s a threat lingering in the question, a promise of a danger if Jason didn’t answer correctly.

Jason takes a sharp inhale of cold air that burns like fire in his lungs and he tries to answer, but the words are like ashes in his mouth and won’t pass his lips.

“I asked you a question. Where have you been?” The hands move from his shoulders and inch by inch, they creep around his neck and squeeze, tighter and tighter until Jason can’t breathe.

“P-please,” he gasps. 

_PANG._

The spell is broken and Jason falls to his knees, clutching his chest as he catches his breath. Like smoke, the man had vanished into thin air. Jason rests his forehead on his knees, rubbing warmth back into his upper arms and he knows he has to get moving because there’s no fucking chance he just left. He’s still being observed, he could feel it in his bones. Jason moves his shoulders in circles and feels how sore they are. Beneath his sweatshirt, he knows there are red marks that’ll be purple soon.

He takes a breath. Calms his heart. He stands up slowly and starts to walk again, and after a few steps and moments of letting his eyes adjust, he leans into a full blown sprint down the street and just as he predicted, someone’s following and sprinting after him.

Jason is quick. Speed is essential for street rats to live another day, and sometimes Jason thinks he learned to run before he learned to walk.

Cars and buildings glide past him as he turns corner after corner, desperate to find a hiding place or something to between himself and the man but the buildings around had turned into large blocks with smooth surfaces with no doors or gaps between, and if that’s not enough, the man had started to catch up to him with his cape fluttering behind him as a bell around the neck of a pet.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

He takes another turn and almost stops at the sight. The lane was a dead end and instead of a large wall there is an open door, out of which flows golden, warm light. Next to stands a woman in a long, luxurious white dress and a matching mask on her face.

“Come here!” she shouts. “Come this way!”

It doesn’t feel right but it’s better than the option. Jason speeds up as best as he can before his legs give in and takes the woman’s hand. She runs the last distance with him, holding his hand tight to herself.

Once inside the door, it slams shut, and even though they keep running, Jason hears a roar of anger and fists banging on the door.

Jason looks around him and for some reason, he’s not surprised to find himself floating in a vast space, a room without boundaries like walls, floor or roof. It’s like they’re running on air towards another door. He looks at the woman and her carnival mask. Her hair is dark, tied in a very lady-like braided bun high on her head. Like her dress, her mask is a matching white, formed like a smiling crescent moon with silver lines and lips painted a deep shade of red. She’s not looking at him, but the other glowing door they were heading towards. He knows he should ask who she is or who the man was, but somehow it didn’t matter anymore. If he could keep floating in this vast, warm space forever, he’d be okay with that.

Unfortunately for him, they reach the second opening far too soon, and she lets go of his hand as they land on a hard surface. Just like the first door, this opening too closes and disappears in thin air, leaving behind nothing. 

They’re in a large - no, endless room with roof and floor as far as the eye could see in all directions. The roof was black and so shiny he could mirror himself in its surface, while the tiled floor is hardwood. Around them are other people also dressed in beautiful gowns and suits, all with carnival masks as well; some animal-styled and some just faces, all with extravagant decorations like feathers and glitter. There’s not more than maybe 70 people around them, which Jason thinks seems odd for a room so large. The people stand in a circle around him, not acknowledging his presence. 

The woman with the crescent moon mask turns to him and sweetly caresses his cheek. “Stay here all right? I have to make an announcement.”

“Okay,” Jason hums in a daze. The air is thick with the seducing scent of perfumes and wine, the bliss of soft piano music even though he couldn’t see a piano anywhere and the merry chatter of the carnival people. The man and the exploding lights are so far away, like a distant memory and unable to reach him where he stands.

The crescent moon masked woman clinks a glass of sparkling champagne, and the delightful chatter around stops as all audience members turn to look at her.

“Hello, everyone. Thank you for coming,” she gestured theatrically to the audience, walking around Jason to address the crowd in its donut-formation. She continues speaking, but Jason zones it out, peeking at the masks around him. There’s something off about them, but he can’t focus on them – the more he tries, the harder it becomes. He’s seeing double - or are they multiplying? He can’t tell.

A clap from crescent mask woman makes him jump and he snaps his head around to look at her. “I present to you, my dearies, tonight’s entertainment!”

A gleeful applause commences and the crescent mask woman backs away from him and blends in with the crowd, who are now all staring at him.

“Wait, don’t go,” Jason gasps and stumbles forward, reaching for her and the warmth of her hand again. The atmosphere that few seconds earlier was sweet and thick with music and pleasantries, had been replaced with the same sudden cold from before and the lurking sense of malice.

Jason’s reach is stopped, hindered by an invisible barrier appearing out of nowhere.

“What?” he gasps. His palms feel the smooth and cold surface, fumbling for the end of it only to find a corner and another wall. He’s trapped, and it’s not a barrier, he realizes. It’s a rectangular tank stretching from the floor to the ceiling. 

“Let me out!” he yells at the applauding crowd and bangs his fists on the glass. The crowd ceases the applause and returns to holding their glasses that now contained black liquid instead if the sparkling, bubbly champagne. They’re all staring at him, waiting in anticipation of his next move like an animal trying to escape a maze.

“What’s wrong with you?!” he screams, pounding on the glass again. “Let me out of here! Let me…out…”

He stops pounding and tumbles backwards until he hits the other side of the tank, not taking his eyes off the people around him. One by one, their masks fall off onto to the floor and melt into the same black liquid in their glasses and Jason stares at their faces - or rather where their faces are supposed to be. The tingling sensation of something being off about the masks clicked into place because while the masks had holes to see through, the faces beneath are blank canvases devoid of eyes, nose and lips. Smooth and clean like someone had erased their features.

There’s a _squelch_ around his feet that snaps him out of his terror, and when he looks down, the black liquid is covering the bottom of the tank, slowly filling it up.

“Shit,” he gasps. It’s filling up quickly, already reaching his ankles. _What do I do, what do I do, what do I do? Think, Jason, think!_

He dives down, fumbling for a switch or a lock mechanism or _something_ that’ll open up the fish tank and free him, but to his panic, the black liquid is heavier than tires and thicker than syrup and very hard to move in. When Jason tries to feel the bottom corners, he has to put his entire weight in it to reach the corners and slide his fingers along the floor. He curses under his breath when he comes up empty and stands back up to continue to feel the corners upwards, as far as he can reach, but it takes time as the black syrup makes it difficult to move along and when he gives up the search for a switch, the black has reached his elbows and panic is beginning to take over, clouding his senses.

“Damnit,” he cries. Tears of anger and frustration roll down his cheeks against his will, much to the crowd’s amusement. Jason knows he’s too weak and small to shatter anything this big, but he tries anyway. He begins banging his elbow on the glass. 

The crowd outside raise their glasses and turn to each other, clapping and jumping excitedly – and he can hear them faintly cheering him and shouting words of mock encouragement, even without a mouth. “Please, please,” he whimpers. The black syrup is up to his chin neck now and he can’t move anymore, let alone break the glass.

“Let me out, please!” he pleads once more to the cheering crowd. He tips his head back and savours whatever time and air he has left, for despite the black being a liquid, he doesn’t float in it like he would with water.

Then something catches his eye to his left – a figure clad in black amongst the faceless people in white, making his way towards the tank with a quick and determined pace. His saviour’s cowl is something Jason never thought he’d see again, and he laughs in a panicked relief at the stupid ears and the long cape behind him. Jason takes a deep breath as the black liquid submerges his face. Batman stops and there’s a _clank_ , three short beeps and the surface of the glass is blown to smithereens in a small explosion. The syrup, with Jason in it, flows painfully slow to the floor. Breaking free from the goo, Jason gasps for air and crawls forward and collapses on his back, exhausted.

He opens his eyes and sees himself splayed out on the floor in the reflection of the roof, along with the crowd that hasn’t moved. On the other hand, Batman has walked up next to him and looks down at him. From Jason’s perspective, he’s like a towering giant above him, stoic and unreadable as they come.

Slowly, Jason stands up, feeling his joints ache. He wipes away the black goo away from his face with his sleeve as best as he can and mumbles, “I thought I was gonna die there.”

He peeks up at Batman and frowns a bit; the lower part of his face Jason could see looks different somehow. Different yet familiar.

“Um. Thank you,” he says a bit hesitantly and looks around. Should he say Mister? Mister Batman? Sir Batman?

The faceless people have vanished in thin air, leaving only Batman and Jason together in the endless room.

“I was looking for you,” Batman says. “And then I found you, you ran away. Why did you do that?”

It’s a movement too quick for Jason; his ear is enclosed by fist and pulled upwards, and Jason immediately raises himself to the balls of his feet to hinder his ear being ripped off and he screams in pain, clutching and hitting Batman’s arm to make him let go.

“You thought I wouldn’t find you? Did you really think you’d get away from me, _boy_?” He spat the last word, as if it was a curse with lips twisted into a snarl. His free arm peels the cowl off revealing a pair of cold, despicable eyes that has the same teal shade as Jason’s. It was funny, that he’d see it again after all time and that he still loathed the similarity. The scent of cigarettes, beer, sweat and that sickening cologne he used wear fills Jason’s nose and makes him queasy and nauseous and it reminds him of all the times the man used to spray it on in the bathroom. 

All it takes is a second of Willis for Jason to become the powerless, terrified child he used to be and every progress and step he had taken to be better and stronger disappeared. Out of his mouth comes a pleading stream of _let me go_ and _I’m sorry_ and _I’ll never do it again,_ spoken in whispers and whimpers.

Willis laughs a cruel and mocking laugh. “Come along now, son. Let’s catch up.”

Despite Jason’s protests and struggle, he pulls him along with him. “No, no, no, please, please-“

Willis ignores him. 

Jason knows far too well what’ll come next. And he’d rather die. He’s older. Faster, stronger and he knows more. His fingers lock around Willis’ fat thumb and twists all he can, breaking his grip. A shout of surprise and pain comes from Willis and Jason seizes the moment to turn on his heels. Maybe he could fight him, maybe he couldn’t – it didn’t matter, all Jason wants to do is to get away from him as far as possible. He takes two steps and the gloved hand is on his shoulder again, pulling him back and it’s not a hand anymore, it’s a claw with sharp fingernails drawing blood.

“NO!” Jason screams again. He hits something and then he falls, down, down, down, before he crashes hard on carpet. There’s something wet and warm dripping from his hand. He blinks down to see blood.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It isn't easy being Jay.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	11. Entering the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce wishes he could reach out and push it all away and give Jason some sense of safety and comfort, or at least take Jason’s burden and make it his own. Bruce wonders if Jason had nightmares every time he fell asleep or if just a few times - that at least there were times he had a decent enough night’s sleep without nightmares.

BRUCE

Tuesday

 

The rumble of thunder makes Bruce push the curtains away to look outside his window. The sky is a dark and heavy grey, thick with the threat of rain.

“It seems the summer storms has set in, sir,” a voice says behind him.

“Mm.”

Bruce turns to Alfred and the tray he’s holding with one cup, a kettle of steaming liquid and a small bowl of cookies balancing on it. While pouring a cup, Alfred says nonchalantly, “I’ve heard there’s bad weather along the coast, particularly nasty a bit south.”

Which is Alfred for: There’s bad weather in Blüdhaven too. Call Dick and check up on him?

“If it continues raining I’ll have to switch boots for tonight,” Bruce says, still looking through the window. Heavy rain would result in a bit more tiresome patrol. Fewer people went out during rain, meaning the few that went out had a higher chance of getting robbed or assaulted. Rain decreased the chance of witnesses and increased the chance of covered tracks.

“That’s understandable,” Alfred says. It’s polite enough, but Bruce recognized the hint of displeasure at Bruce ignoring the unspoken request.

“Where’s Jason?” Bruce turned from the window and picked up the cup of tea, blowing on the golden liquid. Earl Grey, one of Alfred’s favourites. Bruce himself had always been more of a coffee man, but Alfred had never quite given up the quest to make tea the preferred drink.

“Well, he’s almost always at the same place. The last I saw him was in the library a while ago. What are you planning?”

“I just need to talk to him.” Bruce puts the cup down.

“I see. About?”

“I just need to make sure he’s okay and see if he’s not interested in eating again.”

After Bruce snapping at him yesterday, Jason had stopped eating. Not entirely, but significantly less than he used to for the past two weeks. He stopped eating midway through yesterday’s breakfast, declined lunch and anything Alfred offered to make, and only took a small serving for dinner just to repeat the same cycle today. When Alfred or Bruce tried to nudge him to take another serving he claimed he was full and didn’t want more. It was jarring in comparison to how big his appetite usually was.

“Yes, well. It seems he’s very sensitive to people around him losing their temper for the most mundane things,” Alfred smiles coldly. 

“Thanks for the tea,” Bruce nods and gives the cup back to Alfred. “In the library, you said?”

“Yes, Master Bruce. I’ll be in the kitchen. You both need something to consume before night time.”

“Don’t overwork yourself. Are you feeling better?”

“If you’re referring to my mild cold, I am in good conditions again, don’t you worry.”

A few minutes later, Bruce finds Jason in the library leaning on the long table with arms crossed, resting his head on them and napping. Bruce wishes he could say Jason looked more peaceful when sleeping, but it was rather the opposite. His body’s jerking and twitching and he has a deep frown His knees are jerking, his eyes are twitching and he has a frown on his forehead. And when not awake and moving, it’s difficult to see how small Jason is.

Bruce wishes he could reach out and push it all away and give Jason _some_ sense of safety and comfort, or at least take Jason’s burden and make it his own. Bruce wonders if Jason had nightmares every time he fell asleep or if just a few times - that at least there were times he had a decent enough night’s sleep without nightmares. That is, if he even slept for more than 6 hours. It’s not difficult to guess that Jason suffered from a lack of sleep judging by the dark circles under his eyes and the fatigue he displayed in the morning.

Bruce would gladly stay at Jason’s bedside when he fell asleep to keep him company or to provide a sense of safety in any way, shape or form - if not for patrols and mostly; Jason wouldn’t trust him to be near him for that long, much less when he was asleep and defenceless, even though he’d never say it out loud.

Like when Jason first slept at the Manor, Bruce reaches out to wake him and bring him to the present. He gently lays his hand on Jason’s shoulder (even with the fabric of the hoodie, the bones beneath are prominent) and shakes carefully.

“Jason?” he asks lightly. Jason groans weakly in response and his eyelids flutter. “Jason?” Bruce tries again, and Jason twitches and then, on Bruce’s third try, Jason’s eyes flew open as lightning strikes just outside and the room flashes white, echoing the sound of thunder and Jason’s scream and Bruce’s grunt. Something had struck his cheek and Bruce tumbles backwards as Jason falls and hits the floor along with the chair.

Bruce touches his cheek where it stings to feel warm blood trickle down his face and chin. Jason looks at his own hand and then at Bruce in horror – and Bruce knows this is a ticking bomb, waiting to implode.

“Jason,” Bruce says calmly. His cheek does really sting but it doesn’t matter. “It’s all right.”

“No, no,” Jason whispers and it sounds like he’s about to hyperventilate. He grabs his own upper arms and holds himself so tightly his knuckles turn white. 

“No,” he sobs to himself again and he looks like he did the night in the alley, when he had fought Ralph; his mind somewhere else and seeing ghosts that aren’t real, reliving who-knows what kind of trauma. His body is shaking and there’s beads of sweat on his forehead. Jason’s mouth is open and he’s heaving, almost gasping for air while his eyes are wide open in fear.

“Jason,” Bruce tries again as he’s inching closer to him. “It’s okay,” Bruce says in a soothing voice, the one he used on witnesses in shock and traumatized children.

“No, don’t, don’t, please,” Jason whimpers to someone who isn’t there.

Slowly, Bruce reaches out a hand to make physical contact, an anchor that always helped Dick when he had nightmares. If words wouldn’t get through, the warmth and familiarity of touch was better than nothing. A nasty thought in Bruce’s mind wondered if Jason had ever known touch that didn’t leave bruises.

He edges closer and closer, repeating soothing words in a calm voice and ignoring the scratch Jason had left on him. Bruce’s hand hovers just above Jason’s shoulder when there’s another flash of lightning. Like it had struck Jason, he flinches and jolts up, out of the door before Bruce can stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands up if you're binging Chilling Adventures of Sabrina this weekend!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Have a great Halloween!


	12. Running through the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lightning crackles through the air again and it makes his skin crawl, how much it sounds like gunshots. He can’t think about the echoes of home right now. Focus.

JASON

Tuesday

15 days in the Manor

Jason sprints down the hallway with bare feet, slipping on the bare floor when he turns left and right trying to remember where to go with blood pumping in his ears and cold sweat on his forehead, trying not to think about masks and the fishtank and the exploding lights and _him_ and the claw on his shoulder and the blood on his hands. Someone shouts his name and lightning strikes outside, mixing with echoes of gunshots and drunk men smashing bottles and threats and bloody knuckles.

He bursts through the doors of the dining room and he halters for a bit because this isn’t where he needed to go - but there’s a glass door leading out to the gardens. Jason shoves it open, hard, and without stopping, he jumps from the patio and hits the wet lawn. He almost slips on the first step but regains his balance and sprints forward. Large drops of rain hit his bare skin like whips and it stings and his clothes become wetter and heavier and colder. Jason jumps over short hedges and runs over patches of flowers, ignoring the pathway of cobblestone.  

Someone – Willis, Batman, Mr. Wayne – yells for him somewhere behind him, they sound angry and Jason knows there’s a beating coming and it’ll be called it payback or justice or eye for an eye or _whatever_ they’ll say– Jason doesn’t want to know.

He’s past the gardens and back onto wet and slippery grass. Halfway to the woods. Halfway to safety. Once there it’d be harder to catch him – more obstacles and more to hide behind. When there’s enough distance he could find a hole or something to sit in and wait everything out.

Lightning crackles through the air again and it makes his skin crawl, how much it sounds like gunshots. He can’t think about the echoes of home right now. _Focus_.

The sounds of rain and thunder blends with Jason’s panting and the _boom boom boom_ of his heartbeat and it should drown other sounds - yet, cutting through all of that are the thumping of heavier feet chasing after him. He, they are following him, and this time, there’s no salvaging woman in white with a magical door.

It’s only the looming, dark woods. But it’s an escape nonetheless. And beggars can’t be choosers.

“Jason, STOP!” the man orders in Jason’s ear. Jason speeds up, even though his legs are already on fire. There’s a missed tug of his hood and the heavy presence of a man, a threat, too large to get away from. Another tug, and they both come crashing down and slide on the wet grass until they stop in an entanglement of limbs. Whoever’s tightly holding Jason’s wrist keeps him in place and ignores his screaming and attempts to wriggle away. The man shouts something Jason refuses to listen to, he knows the menacing words that will cut like knives, he knows he’s trash and he deserves it but he just wants to be left _alone_ -

“Get off! Get! _Off_!” Jason screams. He kicks blindly and hits something with his heel because the man yells in pain and surprise and he lets go. Before Jason’s grabbed again, he stumbles up as fast as he can and sprints.  

If the man gets up and resumes following him, Jason don’t know, but either way it’s too late – Jason has the head start. He crashes into the thick of the woods before anyone hauls him back.

*** 

He jumps over roots and ducks under branches. Now in the woods, the thunder and rain is far away. There’s a lazy and thin mist drifting in the woods around that gets thicker the further in Jason runs. The air that smelled of rain, wet grass and stone is now heavy with the scent of moist earth, moss and deep secrets.

The yelling behind him echoes now, a deep voice bouncing off of trees that fades in the distance, whose words are unintelligible. Jason’s feet are cold and sore while the rest of him is on fire and he can begin to taste metal on his tongue as he swings to the left.

He’s still soaking wet – his hair is even dripping – but it’s not important. He has to find somewhere to hide and stay out of sight for a while, probably until nightfall when they’ll give up on him, and then he’ll be free to go back to Gotham.

He slows down the pace to a quick jog instead of a full run, just a bit, to conserve energy and to think. His small frame had always been a curse – now a gift as he slipped between trees and out of sight.

_Ok. Focus. Just focus. One step at a time._

Priorities. Hide. Find a hole or something and get shelter for the night. Sleep. Sleep? Would he be able to? Yes, yes, he’d sleep. Coming down from the adrenaline rush would have him knocked the fuck out in while. Maybe he’d find something to eat before that, berries or some shit. Not that he knew much about edible plants found in the wilds. He’s hungry, though. Starving, actually. Going for a full sprint with an adrenaline shock isn’t a good idea after not eating much for the past days. His stomach had been adjusting to three meals a day. Now he’d eaten close to nothing for the past two days and his body didn’t like it. Gone were the edges and the few pros being homeless had given him.

He’s itching for a smoke. To sit down and feel the small relief of nicotine. He’s been empty for a while now and he missed it. Jason only smoked once a week or so to curb appetite and he’d always been careful to not become addicted. He couldn’t afford to become addicted. He considered buying a pack when he went shopping with the butler, something he quickly decided against when the store had employees who glared at him when he hovered around the section of cigarettes. At the run-down kiosk where he usually went to get a pack, the fat clerk didn’t blink twice at seeing kids there. Money is money.

Hide. Eat? Sleep. Walk to Gotham. Start over.

Ok. Easy.

It’d suck starting over. Everything he had, every single thing, is in boxes back in the Manor. His Discman, his clothes, the money had left, the photo of mom - the photo of mom!

He stopped dead in his tracks, so sudden he almost fell. Fuck everything else, that photo is the most precious thing he’d ever have, he needs it back…! But the risk is too great. He turns to where he came from, pushes a hand through his hair and chokes down a sob. He wants to go back he really does but -

This plan he has, this direction he’s going, it’s the best for everyone. He’d go back to Gotham in the morning, nice and quiet. They’d think he got lost or died or something. They’d tell Batman, and he won’t waste his time snooping around again if he thinks Jason’s dead. It’s win-win for everybody.

He clenches his fist and wipes away tears on his cheeks. “Sorry, mom,” he whispers. He lingers for a second.

“Fuck.”

Then he continues jogging.

He’d make a drawing or something. Write down the shades of her hair. Carve her smile in the palm of his hand and her eyes on his collarbone, trace her hair in the stars and hum her favourite songs when he ate breakfast. Keep her alive.

He has to start again with saving and begging and pickpocketing money, and it’ll take a while but he just have to endure those years and he could do that right? It’d go quicker with experience and age. Maybe he should start dealing or something, just to speed it up. Jason is tired now, really tired, and the thought of starting from scratch makes him want to curl up and never move again. But he could do that later, once he gets mom that gravestone. One with angels on it.

Jason looks around him for anything that looks familiar, anything recognizable from yesterday’s walk but there’s nothing. While Jason knows Park Row like the back of his hand, the woods are impossible to navigate by comparison. Gotham had people and buildings and streets to help him navigate, while the woods just had… well, trees. They’re all the same. And there’s no trace of that path he followed yesterday, so that’s off the table.

To make everything worse, it’s slowly getting darker so soon he’d be stumbling around blindly, meaning he has to find somewhere to hide soon before he actually gets lost.

The pitter-patter of rain hasn’t stilled around him, and neither had the thunder. He slows down and stops in front the edge of a hill, slightly out of breath. He’d gotten lost in his own thoughts, oblivious to where he was going. The hill is steep and barren of trees, so the mudslide would leave very visible traces. Shit. He has to go a different way. He turns to the right and takes a step forward and there’s another flash of lighting as the pain shoots up his foot. He cries out in pain, loses his balance and falls over the edge.

He lands on his shoulder and he doesn’t stop rolling until his back hits the trunk of a tree and he lets out another cry of pain.

God fucking damn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jay :/
> 
> ....Happy Friday!


	13. White noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hazy memory of stepping on something enters his mind. Yes, he stepped on something. Or did he trip? No, he stepped on something. It hurt. Then and still. A stone, or glass. Maybe drunkards had been here or hunters, shooting bottles and leaving the shards.

JASON

???

???

 _The woods are so pretty,_ he thinks. Blurry, deep shades of green, blues and brown mixed together. It’s not anywhere near the images of the rainforest he saw on TV when he was little though, where the forest was neon green with vivid red and yellow flowers, orange frogs and beige monkeys with pink faces swinging from tree to tree.

By comparison, these woods are darker, deeper and lesser…alive. Like Gotham, it lacks a flourishing flora, fauna and animal life. But still pretty, Jason decides.

He wonders if it had been Metropolis instead of Gotham, would the forest looked different? Would the trees have been less menacing and dark? Maybe Metropolis’ life and hope would bleed outside the city limits like Gotham’s sickness.

But the sickness isn’t so bad. Not really. He is part of it. The woods are pretty. They’re beautiful. He’s a part of the disease, here to infect. Squirrels beware.

He blinks slowly a few times and squints to force everything to stay focused.

Jason gazes up to see blue light and rain break through the barrier of dark green leaves above him and all around. He sits slumped against the tree he crashed into at the bottom of the steep hill, his feet stretched out in front of him and his hands at his sides with palms up.

Shades of greens blues and brown mixed together. Not bricks and fire escapes and broken windows. A different kind of beautiful.

There’s red too, he notices. Deep, rich red, flowing from his foot, forming a small puddle and staining the dirt.

A hazy memory of stepping on something enters his mind. Yes, he stepped on something. Or did he trip? No, he stepped on something. It hurt. Then and still. A stone, or glass. Maybe drunkards had been here or hunters, shooting bottles and leaving the shards.

Whatever.

 _Get outta here_ , his mind reminds him.

He tries to stand, slowly and shakily because it should still be possible to shuffle or limp or hope on one foot to somewhere where he at least won’t sit out in the open and stick out like a sore thumb. He straightens up and immediately sees spots. He falls forward on all four and heaves for air.

 _Fuck_ , Jason curses and crawls back to the position he had, shoulders slouching and head lazily resting against the tree trunk. He closes his eyes. 

 _Breathe_.

He’s still soaking wet, and it’s cold now. The heat from the run earlier had started to wear off, and the adrenaline rush began making him drowsy.

Jason looks down at his grey sweats covered in mud. He’s dirty, or at least, dirtier than usual and Jason decides he doesn’t like mud. It’s too slippery. Concrete and asphalt is hard and sturdy and much, much preferable. Easier to run away on.

Ok, maybe he can’t walk, but he could at least yank out whatever it is that made everything hurt so bad. Instead, nausea kicks in when he moves again and he lurches to his right so far down his forehead touches ground.

 _Don’t move_ , his body commands.

He stays down with his forehead pressed to a root for a while, he doesn’t know how long, gasping for air and using every ounce in his body to keep the contents of his stomach down. (Not that there’s much in it, but throwing up acid is the worst. It’d burn his throat and nostrils and it’s the last thing he needs.)

Steadying himself, Jason slowly sits back up while greedily breathing in all the air he can manage. Leaning back against the trunk once more, he closes his eyes and opens them several times before the world stays still. He keeps his breathing slow and controlled and the acid stays down.

Everything hurts. His back aches. His foot is useless so he can’t walk anywhere. If he moves something he’ll vomit for sure. He can’t, for the life of him, stop the world from spinning or maintain focus.

“Ok,” he says out loud (or maybe he doesn’t, he’s not sure), “I have to sit for a bit then I’ll get up and do the plan.”

The plan. Plan…? Wait, is there one? Yes, there is one, or at least, there was one.

He can’t recall what the plan’s about or the steps in it. But he knows he can’t stay here for long.

Or?

Maybe he can. Why not, again? It’s dry enough, a patch shielded by the leaves of the tree he’s under. Safe, probably. Yes, he could stay. He should stay, It’s not a bad spot, not really. He’s too out in the open for his own taste, but he doesn’t have a lot of options. He doesn’t want to move – or rather, he can’t move, even if he wanted to.

And he’s tired. Jason just wants to lie down and sleep dreamlessly.

Thunder booms again somewhere not far away, but it’s softer and more dampened than before. His ears – his ears are still on his head, he feels, but they’re not working properly. Like his vision, his hearing is off balance. Out of focus. 

Why? Oh, right. He fell. Humpty Dumpty Jason.

The pain in his foot stings but it’s less than before. He’s numb. He’ll try walking on again in the morning.

There’s warmth dripping down his cheek too. When he touches it and traces it upwards, there’s aching coming from his temple and his fingers come away red. Like foot like head, he supposes. Or like head like foot? Is that a thing?

He thinks of mom. Catherine. 

(She said once that Catherine, the name, had meant pure in almost all origins. Greek, French and Latin.

“What’s Latin?” Jason asked.

“Latin is an old language.”

“Older than Mrs. Mill down the hallway?”

“Older.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“But then what does Jason mean?”

“Jason means you,” she caressed his cheek. “It can be whatever you want it to be.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Then Jason means pizza for dinner.”

“Okay then. Pizza for dinner.”)

He misses her so much. It’s more than an ache; it’s sharp and hollow and ugly inside of him, a part of him that withered after she died in that bathroom. It wasn’t like losing a limb, because that hurt in the moment depending on how, and something you could adapt to - this is like his arm is constantly twisted around, the bone always on the edge of breaking, only a thousand times worse and never ending. An itch he can’t ever scratch. A wound that gets salt poured into it every day.

When he dies, he wonders if he’d see her again. If there exists a heaven and hell, would he go to the same place? To heaven? He chuckles at the thought. Probably not.

Eyelids become too heavy to keep open. Seconds or minutes passes, he can’t tell, but he’s getting hungrier and colder. Problems he’d usually fix by nibbling on old leftovers found in the trash and wrapping old newspapers over himself. Problems that once were a part of everyday life were now problems he hadn’t needed to think about for weeks.

Time passes. It gets darker and the pitter-patter of rain is his only company. 

It crosses his mind twice, a thought as heavy as led. He knows it’s true. This will be his grave. This desolated spot in the woods.

Jason should continue walking. Force himself to stay awake or scream but…

He has no desirable future and he knows it. There’s nothing worth living for ahead of him except starvation, blood, pain and fear. 

He should get up. He has to get up.

He doesn’t want to. 

And if he’s being completely, brutally honest with himself… he can’t take it anymore.

He’s tired.

He can’t move.

There are worse ways to die. He’d seen them. Starvation, freezing, beatings, suicide, murder. If he believed in them, it’s a miracle he’d made it this far at all.

This quiet death is a gift, a blessing, few got.

It’s ironic, how he’d lived amongst trash and smoke only die amongst trees and mist. Green, blue and brown. A little red. And now him, a stain that interrupted the flow and balance.

Maybe someone would find him in the future, when he’s all bones. They’d ask themselves what he’s doing there and no one would have answers. He’d be burned and become ashes.

He’d bang his fists on the pearly gates.

There's someone calling him far away, barely audible over the overlapping echoes of the woods around him, bidding him goodbye.

_Yes, mom._

He gives in, and drifts away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got done with my fourth exam today and now I only have one left! I haven't been able to write much lately, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Have a nice weekend :)


	14. Beneath the leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason’s quick, surprisingly so, and a small part of Bruce feels an odd sense of pride at how fast he is. But Bruce is faster. He catches up with Jason about halfway to the Manor woods. “Jason! Slow down! It’s okay!”

BRUCE

Tuesday

 

It all happened too quick. Jason was too quick. He was out the door and disappeared down the hallway before Bruce could blink, and Bruce was too slow. By the time he followed, Jason had already thrown himself out on the lawn, making his way throughout bushes and flowerbeds.

“What on _earth_ -“ Alfred’s voice said somewhere behind him, before Bruce jumped down from the patio and onto the wet grass to follow Jason.

“Jason! Jason, stop!” he yells against the rain and the wind. If Jason hears him, there’s nothing that shows it.

Jason’s quick, surprisingly so, and a small part of Bruce feels an odd sense of pride at how fast he is. But Bruce is faster. He catches up with Jason about halfway to the Manor woods. “Jason! Slow down! It’s okay!” Bruce shouts and he reaches forward, grasping at Jason’s hoodie and he misses and when he tries again, he nabs a fistful of fabric.

They both fall and roll on the wet grass, an entanglement of limbs – and Bruce manages to get a hold of Jason’s wrist before he wriggles up and away again.

The boy screams and thrashes about  - a hissy fit thrown due to panic and terror. Bruce manages to hold on to Jason firmly despite his attempts to slip away.

“Jason, it’s okay!” Bruce yells. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you but have to calm do – _augh_!”

A heel crashes into his nose and the impact gives him whiplash backwards and makes him involuntarily let go of Jason’s slim wrist. Cold drops of rain mixes with the familiar warmth of blood on his face. Bruce groans and looks up to see two of Jason run into the woods and blend with the trunks.

“Shit,” he moans and lies his head back on the ground.

He blinks up at the sky and the dark clouds as a black umbrella appears above him with an accompanying, friendly face with a worried frown.

“Master Bruce, are you all right? What on earth is going on?” Alfred peers down at him with a worried frown and offers him a hand.

Bruce grabs it and stands up. “He was having a nightmare and ran off.”

He hunches under the umbrella, even though it didn’t do much good considering he’s soaking. Bruce wipes away blood from his nose. It’s going to leave a bruise and be swollen in the morning.

“And your face? What happened there?”

“I’ll explain later. I have to catch up with him before he gets lost,” Bruce gestures towards the trees.

Alfred’s face turns grim. “Yes, you should. Should I come with you, sir? It’d be faster with two.”

Bruce shakes his head no. “Stay here in case he comes back. He might, considering his attachment to everything he owns. If neither of us are back within the hour, call the GCPD and tell them… tell them a boy’s missing.”

“Will do, sir. Be careful.”

Bruce begins jogging again, and as he does, he’s thankful Alfred didn’t say what they both were thinking; if GCPD comes, they are guaranteed to take Jason away. Despite all his wishful thinking, keeping Jason here against his will isn’t legal - it’s kidnapping and blackmailing. It’s been a risky game he had been playing.

Bruce’s damaged ankle throbs, his nose still bleeds and there’s a pounding against his skull. He ignores it and pushes forward.

***

His nose is swelling already, but not enough to completely block out the scent of moist earth and clear forest air.

Following Jason’s tracks turns out to be difficult for two reasons. One, the pouring rain washed away the few tracks Jason left (few, because there are many roots that unlike mud, doesn’t leave footprints and Bruce knows Jason is smart enough to know that, even if he might not even do it consciously anymore) and second, his ankle is hindering him from running as fast as he can so he’s moving at one fourth of his normal pace.

He could ignore it and run anyway but that’d be even more painful and he’d eventually be confined by Alfred and Leslie to crutches for at least a week or two until it healed up properly - something he most definitely did _not_ need.

So there he is, following Jason at a ridiculous and frustratingly slow pace.

On occasion, he calls for Jason in the small hopes he’d respond. He didn’t, of course.

He bends down and traces his fingers over a snapped twig and some grass laying unnaturally flat. To the left? He frowns. It didn’t make sense. If Jason wanted to get as far away as fast as possible, the most logical solution would be to run straight. Maybe he was going in a specific direction? Did he look for something in particular? Had he hidden a stash of food somewhere? It wouldn’t surprise Bruce if Jason had taken the walk yesterday only to be able to navigate the woods in case something happened.

Hm.

He stands up and continues in the slow pace. His shirt and pants are soaked, and on his collar are drops of blood from his nose that now had stopped. His dress shoes too, are soaked. Not exactly the best shoes to go for a run in the forest with.

He checks the clock on his wrist, which tells him 15 minutes had passed. 45 minutes left to find Jason and bring him back to the Manor.

If not, Alfred would be forced to call the GCPD. They would launch a manhunt, perhaps with bloodhounds, which could take hours and Jason would be scared out of his wits, increasing the chance of him hurting himself tenfold. Jason would be taken in and left to the foster system of Gotham, a system so flawed, dangerous and corrupted Jason would rather starve on the street than be in.

Bruce had been active in the past years in uprooting Gotham’s weed and the foster system was the core. Most thugs started out with a bad and traumatic childhood, slowly getting pulled into doing drugs and dealing on the side for extra money. Then it would escalate; from drugs to thievery to gangs to murder. A continuous circle of hopelessness and crime and prison. In worst cases, Arkham. Wayne Enterprises had made progress to break the circle, but yet barely scratched the surface.

Bruce stops for the second time and studies the ground. Jason had stopped here. The prints were bigger, heavier – he stood here for a little while. Maybe he wanted to turn around and come back but kept going. Bruce ached at the thought. What if Jason calmed down, stopped and wanted to turn around, only to believe Bruce or Alfred would somehow punish him if they saw him again?

Bruce sighs heavily and drags a hand over his face. He checks his watch again – 23 minutes had passed.

Moving on, he begins to recognize the area– yes, there’s that tree with the pattern in it that looked like a face, the one he once hid behind when he and Harvey playing hide and go seek as kids.

Soon he’d get to that hill he used to ride his sleigh down during the winters with Mother. The thrill of the sleighride and the cold wind in his face as he raced down used to be so much fun. Alfred would always be ready with cups of hot chocolate afterwards and – is that blood?

Hair stands on his neck as Bruce stops for the third time and kneels (his pants already needs a wash, no need to be dainty about it) to pick up a, small, triangle-shaped pointy rock. On the ground around it are washed out drops of red, giving away Jason’s breadcrumbs. Bruce touches the ground – there’s no more prints or trails, leading neither forward or backwards.

There’s only one way left. Down the hill. He stands up and tosses the stone away while scanning the way down for any traces of Jason skipping or sliding down – just to see big, vague shapes in a long continuous trail start about four feet from the edge. Following the trail, Bruce spots a small figure at the end of it.

Jason sits with his back against a tree, chin resting on his chest and hands at his side. He’s not moving.

The sight is a gut punch and an ice bath at once. It’s finding the empty Batmobile again. It’s Jason not eating because he’s scared of Bruce.

Bruce shouts Jason’s name, running down the mud hill as fast as he can without falling and he slides the last distance on his knees and almost crashes into Jason.

“Hey, hey, hey, stay with me, Jason, stay with me, stay awake! I’m here, okay? I’m here,” Bruce rambles as he cups Jason’s face and looks for signs of life. Jason’s breathing is shallow and slow and he’s shivering and cold, too cold and very, very pale – he’s bleeding from a cut on his temple, Bruce registers.

Bruce continues rambling and calling Jason’s name to get him to wake up, _just please wake up, please –_

Bruce places two fingers on his pulse – slow and weak, but still there, thank God - and continues systematically checking for injuries. There are none except for the shard in Jason’s foot - which explains the bloodied rock and the evidence of a fall – and the cut on his temple along with other minor scratches and bruises.

He cups Jason’s face again. “Jason, can you hear me?”

No reaction.

“Jason, please, can you hear me?” Bruce repeats with a shaky voice and gently pats Jason’s cheek. “Come on, Jay, come on –“

Bruce pats his cheek again, and finally, _finally_ , Jason groans softly and his eyelids flutter open, much to Bruce’s relief.

“Stay awake – focus on my voice,” Bruce says as calmly as he can, barely keeping in the distress he felt. He pushes back Jason’s hair and wipes away some blood from his temple.

Jason’s teal eyes slowly focus on Bruce and there’s a flash of confusion across his face, and for a moment Bruce expects Jason to freak again and slap his hands away or something similar.

Instead, Jason reaches up and carefully touches the scratch on Bruce’s cheek with shaky and small fingers.

“Bruce,” he whispers in quiet disbelief. His hand move from Bruce cheek to his wrist and squeezes. “Bruce,” he repeats again in a voice that breaks.

“I’m here, stay with me,” Bruce nods and clasps Jason’s hand, squeezing it gently. It’s so cold.

“I’m sorry,” Jason whimpers. Tears form in his eyes and drips down his cheeks and his lip quivers. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, I promise,” Bruce says breathlessly. He glances at Jason’s cut on his temple. At most it’s a concussion and a scar. “Let’s head back, yeah?” is all Bruce can say before Jason’s close and his hand goes limp again.

Bruce curses. “I’ll lift you up now,” he mutters. Jason can’t hear him but considering his disdain from being in arm’s reach, much less being touched, Bruce felt he had to say it.

He gently hooks one arm beneath Jason’s knees and the other under his back to carry him bridal-style and holds the small body as steady as he possibly can while moving as fast as he can back to the Manor – if Jason has a concussion he has to be careful.

Jason stirs weakly in his arms and to Bruce’s surprise, Jason’s sighs softly and leans his head against Bruce.

Bruce curses again, mad that he didn’t take a jacket with him to cover Jason with. He’s shivering – could it be hypothermia. For now, Bruce has to settle with holding Jason close and hope what little body warmth and protection he could offer are enough.

It takes Bruce 15 minutes until he’s out of the woods. In front of the patio stands a concerned Alfred, and instead of hot chocolates he’d present with a smile all those years ago, he’s holding an umbrella and a blanket, with concern written across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :^)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Happy Friday!


	15. My place is here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So now Alfred sits at the edge of the couch, running his fingers across the boy to feel for any more injuries Master Bruce might have missed. By blessings and miracles, there are none.
> 
> “I got everything,” Master Bruce says as he re-enters the living room with a stack of clothes, towels and blankets balancing in his arms. On top was the first aid kit.
> 
> “We have to change him out of his clothes and get him warm,” Alfred says, in a matter-of-fact voice, “before I take a look at his injuries.”
> 
> “Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: A minor mention of abuse.

ALFRED

Tuesday night

 

Seeing Master Bruce emerging from the darkened forest in the pouring rain, soaked and limping ever-so-slightly was upsetting to say the least. And then when he saw the small body in his arms, Alfred’s heart dropped. For a second he couldn’t breathe at the sight of Master Jason laying too still and quiet in Master Bruce’s arms. 

He met them halfway, holding the umbrella above their heads to shield the two from the rain until they finally reached inside (not that it made much difference). Master Bruce listed Master Jason’s injuries - possible mild hypothermia, possible concussion, wound in left temple and deep cut in one foot – while they rushed to the living room next to the dining room.

Master Bruce put Master Jason down gently in the couch to let Alfred examine him closer. The boy was shivering and cold, no doubt about it. Alfred ordered Master Bruce to fetch one of the first aid kits they had in the house, along with a fresh change of warm clothes for Jason, towels, wet wipes and blankets.

Master Bruce disappeared to find the items without arguing.

So now Alfred sits at the edge of the couch, running his fingers across the boy to feel for any more injuries Master Bruce might have missed. By blessings and miracles, there are none.

“I got everything,” Master Bruce says as he re-enters the living room with a stack of clothes, towels and blankets balancing in his arms. On top was the first aid kit.

“We have to change him out of his clothes and get him warm,” Alfred says, in a matter-of-fact voice, “before I take a look at his injuries.”

“Right.”

Master Bruce places the items he fetched on the coffee table while Alfred props Master Jason up to a sitting position, his head falling on Alfred’s shoulder.

They work seamlessly and in silence, focusing on the task at hand.

While Alfred supports Master Jason’s body where needed, Master Bruce kneels in front of the boy, grabbing the hem of his hoodie and Alfred leads Master Jason’s arms through the sleeves to help pull the hoodie over his head. Beneath it is a plain, black t-shirt too big. Master Bruce tosses the hoodie into the chair, moving on. Alfred notices the bright red colour of Master Jason’s fingers.

Alfred wishes he could send both Masters Jason and Bruce in the showers to warm them up as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, Mother Nature had designed human bodies to go into shock at quick temperature changes. Warming up someone with hypothermia had to happen slowly and so they had to remove wet and cold clothes.

The t-shirt joins the hoodie in the chair, and Master Bruce’s face hardens looking back to Master Jason. Alfred understands very well why, and he too, feels a rush of the same frustration and helplessness.

Master Jason’s upper body is meagre, for a lack of better word. Perhaps he had gained some weight after arriving to the Manor, but it was not much. Paper thin and pale skin was stretched over sharp bones, making Alfred shudder.

Master Bruce reaches forward and gently graces a small, circular spot on Master Jason’s left upper arm. Alfred follows the movement – and sees what it is.

“Dear God - ” he whispers in horror.

“Cigarette burns,” Master Bruce says with gritted teeth. “He has three – no, four.”

Master Bruce points to the others; one on Master Jason’s collarbone and two on his right upper arm.

“Five,” Alfred corrects him grimly. “He has one on his shoulder as well.”

A heavy silence wraps itself around them. Alfred tries to not imagine a younger, smaller boy at the mercy of Gotham’s scum, writhing and pleading, only to have cigarette butts pressed into his skin.

“My dear boy, I am so sorry,” he whispers to Jason and pushes some of his hair back. Whomever did this, Alfred hopes he is in hell, getting the eternal punishment he deserves.“Let’s continue, Master Bruce. He has to get warmed up.”

They finish undressing him and putting him in clean, warm clothes (white shirt with long sleeves and grey sweatpants), before they lie him back down and put all the blankets Master Bruce fetched earlier on him, as well as a fluffy, clean towel under his head to dry off the wet curls.

Alfred uses the wet wipes to clean off the worst dirt from Master Jason’s feet, so that he can move on the cut on his foot. While he cleans the wound and puts an adhesive pad on it, Master Bruce takes sits back in the chair with Master Jason’s used clothes in a pile in his lap and an ice pack on his nose that had started to change into a shade of purple.

“Last week, when you were away – I accidentally burned some onions and I set off the fire alarm. The face me made when he ran into the kitchen, Alfred… You should’ve seen it. He was horrified. He must’ve thought it was a real fire.”

Master Bruce shakes his head slightly. “I should’ve known,” he says wearily, more to himself than to Alfred.

“You couldn’t have known, Master Bruce. How could you?” Alfred finishes patching up the cut under Master Jason’s foot and moves to examine his head injury. He gently washes the blood away and puts on a band-aid here as well.

“There. I must wait until he wakes to give a proper examination. Now, you wait here while I begin making some soup for the both of you.”

Master Bruce perked up a little. “Chicken noodle?”

“I thought that much would be obvious. And while I’m in the kitchen, you’ll take a shower, get yourself in some clean clothes and then I’ll take a look at your ankle. No arguing,” he adds strictly.

When Alfred returns with heating pads, Master Bruce is in dry and fresh clothing with damp hair observing Master Jason’s chest rise and fall, with a fresh ice pack on his nose.

“The soup should be done soon,” Alfred says, and gently places the heating pads on Master Jason. One on his chest, one on his thighs and one at the end of his feet.

“I already put a bandage on my ankle, for support. It’s a little bruised and swollen. My nose as well,” he points to it. “It’s not broken, just a contusion. I can breathe well enough, I don’t have much of a nosebleed anymore, I don’t have blurry vision nor any deformities.”

“Well, that’s something at least. Please do go easy tonight, unless you want me to get the crutches and tape an ice pack to your cowl.”

Master Bruce _mhm_ -ed.

They both stay quiet while Alfred makes sure Master Jason is tucked in properly. When he’s halfway out to return to the kitchen to stir the soup, Master Bruce adds on, “Actually, Alfred, I think I’m going to stay in tonight.”

Alfred turns in surprise to see Master Bruce glancing at Master Jason.

“I see,” he says, and tries to not let his face give away too much joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my sweet readers. 
> 
> I have some unfortunate updates regarding my other series (Once there was blood): the hiatus will have to continue for an undetermined amount of time as 1. I haven't written anything new because Lady Inspiration hates me and 2. after exams, I've managed to fuck up my wrist on my dominant hand and I have to rest it as much as possible if I want it to be OK again without surgery, meaning I can only write my left hand which is borderline useless and doesn't know how to do anything. Even typing this with my left only, takes forever. This is nothing but my own dumbass fault, so please, don't worry.
> 
> Chapters in the future might therefore be very short because I'm not a very patient person and typing with left only is boring and happens at a snail's pace. 
> 
> Other news: I'll post chapter 16 in this series next week because it's the time of giving and I love all of you, and on that note, I wish all of you a safe and happy holidays with whomever you're celebrating it with, whether it be friends, romantic partner(s), family or pets.


	16. Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s getting late.” Bruce looks at his watch again. 23:19. Normally, he’d be starting his patrol now, listening in on police radio and scanning for thugs in alleyways, busting drug dealers and following leads. Instead, he's like any other citizen; pretty drowsy and old, with the dull ache from his pains and his belly full of bread and chicken noodle soup.

BRUCE

Tuesday night

 

His nose ached with a fresh and familiar sensation of swelling and tenderness. His ankle felt a bit better now that he got some support to it and propped it up on a pillow – if he rested it tonight, it should be fine by tomorrow, right? Bruce doesn't have time nor energy to be limping around.

Bruce leans back on the headrest, listening to the soft, distant hum of the kitchen fan and tracing his fingers over the swollen bridge of his nose, gently placing the ice pack Alfred had fetched on top of it. Unable to hold it in, he sighs in relief at the cold sensation that damps the pain.

Jason is still sleeping next to him, under several blankets Alfred had wrapped tightly around him. Occasionally, he moved his head, but showed no other signs of waking up.

Bruce thought about how Jason would react to being back to the Manor. Would he be scared? Angry, maybe? Either way, he'd say a thousand apologies, even for things that hadn’t been his fault and for things that he had no part in.

There is a small, guilty comfort in Jason’s cut on his foot; chances of him running away again are now strongly reduced.

Bruce closes his eyes, unable to hold them open for much longer. The kitchen fan hummed and hummed, and the familiar and comforting scent of chicken noodle soup filled his nose.

He must have dozed off, because his hand and the ice pack it was holding on his nose slid off his face and onto his lap, making him jerk upright.

On the couch sits Jason, now awake, with his knees pulled up to his chin and one of the heating pads squeezed between his thighs and his chest with his blanket pulled around his shoulders like a cape.

He glances at Bruce’s nose and ankle and pulls the blanket tighter around him. _Always tries to make himself smaller…_

He didn’t seem angry. A little scared. Anxious. Not surprising.

“Hey,” Bruce says and Jason looks away in response, keeping quiet.

“How are you?” 

Jason shrugs, showing no signs of confiding in Bruce. Right. Bruce takes the ice pack that had now almost melted and places it on the table. All of his questions linger on his tongue, but none exit past his lips. He hears Alfred moving around in the kitchen and he can imagine him stirring the soup, waiting until it’s just perfect.

Bruce takes his bad leg off of the table and stands up, limping a little bit when closing in the small distance between his chair and the couch. It doesn’t hurt too bad. Jason watches him with apprehensive eyes and scoots to the right as Bruce sits to his left.

Bruce exhales, turns to Jason who looks away and says, “I know you don’t trust me and that’s all right, I’m not mad about it. But I know you’re struggling. I’ve been there. I’ve had nightmares too, many of them.” Bruce paused a bit, to see if Jason would interject. He doesn’t, so Bruce continues, “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but talking about things can help. And if you do decide to talk, I’m here. I’m a good listener. If, however, you don’t want to talk to me, that’s okay. We can find someone else."

Bruce lightly puts a hand on Jason’s small shoulder. He tenses under the touch but he doesn’t jerk away or flinch.

“Does it hurt? Your nose, I mean,” Jason sniffles eventually.

“No, it doesn’t,” Bruce says warmly.

“I didn’t break it, did I?”

“No. It’s just a little bruised and swollen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is. I’m not mad. I promise.”

Jason’s crying softly into the blanket he’s pulled in balled fists to his face. He sniffles again and wipes his nose and tears away. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

Bruce says nothing, suspecting that no matter what he says, he wouldn’t be able to convince Jason there was nothing to be sorry for. They could sit there for hours, repeating the circle of apologies and forgiveness. With time, perhaps, he could make Jason believe him. He doesn’t take away his hand on Jason’s shoulder until he hears steps approaching. Jason quickly rubs away all streaks of tears and snot from his face, leaving him red and a little blotched.

Alfred enters with a bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup, some rolls, a cup of butter with a butter knife, a jug filled with water and a glass on a tray. Whatever he planned on saying as he entered the living is quickly replaced with a surprised look.

“Oh! My apologies. I wasn’t aware you were awake, Master Jason.”

“Please stop calling me that,” Jason mumbles. Maybe he blushes again, Bruce can't tell.

Alfred ignores it and puts the tray down while Bruce moves back to his chair. “I’ll bring you a serving as well, Master Jason, but first, I need to give you a closer medical examination.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then it doesn’t hurt to check.” Alfred smiles a friendly but firm smile which said he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He pulls up the first aid kit he used earlier and takes the spot where Bruce sat seconds prior and fishes out a flashlight and other tools, which Jason firmly ignores.

“Master Jason, please remove your blanket so that I can examine you.”

Jason shifts, looking straight forward and away from Alfred pulling the blanket even tighter around him, wielding it like a shield. At this point, only his head is showing.

“Master Jason. Please, let me examine you. I just want to ensure you don’t suffer heavier injuries.”

Jason bites his lip, glancing at the kit. Considers it. Looks at Bruce who gives a reassuring smile. Then, he pulls down the blanket and turns to Alfred. The heating pad stays in his lap, sloshing about as it moves. Alfred lights into his eyes and asks standard routine questions. Jason replies in short answers. No headache, no dizziness, no nausea. Not now at least. Reluctantly, he admits he took a tumble in the woods (Bruce already knew that, but he listens in anyway, discretely dipping bread in soup and nibbling on it and sucking every syllable spoken to him like a sponge) and was both nauseous, dizzy and had a ringing in his ears.

“That can be from the fall,” Bruce interjected.

“Combined with his diet, or rather, lack thereof,” Alfred muttered.

Jason turns red again at the words and looks down. “Sorry…”

Alfred snaps his jaws shut and his face softens. “No, I apologize, young sir. We shouldn’t speak as if you’re not here. Please let me know the moment you feel anything like that again.” Alfred packs the kit together. “I’ll go get you something to eat, which I expect you to finish, _Both of you_. Now, don’t use your foot too much or else the wound will reopen. I shall fetch crutches for you to use when you’re ready to go upstairs and go to sleep, which I hope you do before it gets too late.”

Bruce glances at his watch. It’s already 22:45. He dips a second roll into his soup as Alfred heads back to the kitchen again, taking the used ice pack with him.

“The soup is delicious, you know. It’ll really warm you up,” Bruce says. “Alfred probably made a lot, so eat as much as you want.”

Jason just pulls the blanket around him again and resumes the position he was in earlier. They sit in silence until Alfred brings a second, identical tray to the first one, and disappears right after. For a second, Bruce was worried that Jason would refuse to eat anything or just eat the bare minimum like he had the past days. If so, Bruce would have to…he didn’t know what, exactly. Obviously he couldn’t force Jason to eat, but he would have become sterner than before, even if that meant Jason wouldn’t trust him or even like him anymore. As much as he wants Jason to fully trust him, Bruce would sacrifice that in a heartbeat if it meant Jason would eat properly.

To Bruce’s relief, Jason eats both the steaming soup and the two rolls that came with. He greedily gulps down glasses of water, followed by the second and third serving Alfred brings them.

They eat in silence, but Bruce can tell Jason isn’t anxious anymore; he doesn’t watch Bruce’s every move with suspicious eyes and he’s not listening into every sound around them, neither Alfred’s footsteps nor the lightning outside. He doesn’t wait for Bruce to taste test the food first. He’s relaxed. He almost looks his age. 

“I don’t think I have room for anymore,” Jason sighs in content after his fifth roll. The bowl is empty and Alfred appears in the door, like clockwork, to retrieve it.

“That’s excellent timing, considering the both of you have eaten everything," he smiles, and Bruce can tell Alfred’s satisfied – both with the amount Jason ate and the fact that Jason seems to love his cooking. He disappears out the door again, gracefully balancing all plates, bowls and glasses on his arms.

“It’s getting late.” Bruce looks at his watch again. 23:19. Normally, he’d be starting his patrol now, listening in on police radio and scanning for thugs in alleyways, busting drug dealers and following leads. Instead, he's like any other citizen; pretty drowsy and old, with the dull ache from his pains and his belly full of bread and chicken noodle soup.

Jason shrugs off the blanket again and plants his feet to the floor and before Bruce can stop him, he stands up – an attempt that ends in a grimace and him losing his balance, causing him to fall back down onto the couch. “Shit.” He lifts his bad foot up and twists it to look at the adhesive, which luckily didn’t show any signs of the wound starting to bleed.

“Alfred warned you not to stand. He’ll get the crutches for you.”

Jason ignores him. Fiercely independent, as always. Doesn’t know how to ask for or accept help. Dick and Alfred would roll their eyes and mutter a comment under their breath at how it sounds familiar.

Jason lies down, puts the heating pad on his chest and his elbow over his face. “I don’t want crutches.”

Bruce sighs and rubs his eyes in frustration. Everything he said and did felt like a dead end, an excruciating walk on a mine field. For each step forward it was like he took three steps backwards right after.

Alfred rummages around in the kitchen, the fan now off and the sounds of washing dishes clear to Bruce’s ears. He looks at his watch. 23:31. Even as sleepy as he felt, he itched to go downstairs and put the cowl on. Perhaps he could squeeze in a few hours later?

Alfred stands in the doorway with a frown on his face. He hands Bruce a new ice pack and says in a low tone, “It appears there has been a mistake on my part. In the midst of Master Richard’s…moving, he must’ve taken the smaller crutches. We only have the larger ones, fitted for adults.”

Bruce frowns, leans his head back and puts the ice pack on the bridge of his nose again. “All right,” he says slowly. “But why are you -”

Alfred put a finger to his lips, interrupting Bruce, and looks to Jason, who has fallen asleep, much to Bruce’s surprise and delight. His elbow is still wrapped over his eyes, but his mouth is open and body too relaxed to be awake.

“Oh,” Bruce exhales.

“Perhaps you should get him upstairs and into bed,” Alfred whispers. “ _If_ you swear to take it easy tomorrow.” He gives Bruce a strict look, and Bruce knows Alfred will chain him to bed either way.

“Swear,” he mouths back. Carefully, he scoops Jason in his arms like he did a few hours earlier in the woods.

On his way up, it strikes Bruce that again, Jason is leaning into him – which is an odd thing for him to do when Jason had a solid track record of staying out of arms reach at all times. Then again, it didn’t surprise Bruce considering how paradoxical Jason was as a person. Despite his secrets and mysteries, he wore his heart on his sleeve. Despite avoiding touch like the plague, he’s touch starved. Bruce tries not to think of how long it was since Jason had been hugged. He squeezes Jason a little tighter.

He pushes up the bedroom door with his back, slowly so it doesn’t creak too loudly. Soon after, he pulls back the duvet with his foot and he gently lies Jason down, who’s now slowly opening his eyes and blinking up at him.

“I’m just getting you to bed. Go back to sleep,” Bruce says softly.

Jason's room is dark, the only exception being the open door letting in soft yellow light from the hallway from behind Bruce and if not for the heavy clouds outside, the moon would light up the room in a cool blue hue. Rain drums against the window glass.

Jason pulls the duvet up to his chin. He doesn’t look at Bruce when he stands up to leave.

“Good night,” Bruce smiles. He turns to leave, but something holds him back. A hand has grabbed a fistful of fabric, tugging on his shirt.

“Do the nightmares ever stop?” Jason whispers.

Bruce blinks. _Oh._

Jason lets go of his shirt, scoots over again and give Bruce space to sit. Bruce swallows, thinking of what to say. Thunder booms outside again, and Jason’s eyes flicker to the window.

“With the proper help and support, I believe they can, yes.”

“Have they stopped for you?”

“No. I suppose they haven’t. But it’s gotten better, with time.” Lies. Necessary.

“Is your nose gonna be alright?”

“Yes. Go to sleep now. If there’s anything, any pains or anything at all like earlier, call for me or Alfred, okay?”

Jason nods.

“Promise?”

He nods again.

“Good.”

Bruce hesitates for a bit. “Are you…Do you want me to stay for a bit?”

Jason peeks up at him with wide eyes before he glances down again, measuring Bruce’s sincerity.

He eventually shrugs in response.

“I could sit until you fall asleep,” Bruce suggests. “Keep you company for a bit?”

He shrugs again and Bruce can see tears forming and his lip quaking a little bit.

“Do you want to be alone?” he asks softly.

“…No,” Jason sniffles, barely audible.

“That’s okay. I’ll stay for a bit, then.”

Jason wriggles to the opposite side of the bed, giving Bruce more than enough room. “You can lie down if you want. You shouldn’t be walking around.” Then he turns away so his back faces Bruce and he pulls his knees up to his chin, curling up like a ball. Smaller, smaller.

Bruce’s ankle wasn’t as bad as it was before, but the small amounts of rest it had gotten downstairs and the supporting bandage he wrapped around it had made it significantly easier and less aching. He could easily slump back to his own bed, prop a pillow beneath it and let Alfred look at it tomorrow.

But this is most open Jason had been since he arrived two weeks ago.

He lies down at the edge of his side, giving Jason as much room as he needed, and pulls the duvet up to his chest.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” he offers to Jason’s back. He _mm_ -ed in response, perhaps the closest to yes he could muster.

Outside, the rain had almost stopped; the hammering towards the glass had been replaced with soft drizzle. There are no more bangs of thunder nor flashes of lightning.

Suddenly, Jason says, “I dreamt that I was walking down this street and all the buildings were empty and there were no people around, and there were no sounds either, like the city had been deserted and I had been left behind and forgotten. But there was someone watching me. And then suddenly I couldn’t move, like I was frozen. The guy who’d been watching me came up behind me and he hurt me.”

He speaks quietly and quickly, as if confessing a sin and Bruce listens intently, taking in each syllable. He doesn’t dare move in case it could interrupt this flow of information.

“I managed to get away but he followed me and he almost grabbed me again when I saw this lady standing there and she helped me flee from him and we flew to this ballroom with no walls where there was a party of some sorts. Everyone was wearing masks, like those animal masks and carnival masks with feathers and glitter, you know? Suddenly I was trapped inside this glass box. I try to get out but nothing helps and then it begins to fill with this black liquid which was thick and heavy, like maple syrup. It gets more and more difficult to move, and I start to cry for help, but none of the masked people do anything but laugh at me. The woman didn’t want to help me, she just brought me there so that I could be their entertainment. The more the tank fills up, the less I move and soon enough I go under. I’m drowning. I’m drowning and nobody’s doing anything while I was _drowning_ ,” Jason whispers and somehow, he manages to make himself smaller. He buries his fingers in his hair, covering his ears. “But then there’s an explosion, everything spills out and I’m on the floor with Batman above me and he’s so angry at me for running away from him.”

His breath hitches and he takes a moment before continuing.

“H-he grabs me again and he’s just so angry and he doesn’t let go. But I forced him to – I made him let go – and that’s when I woke up and fell and instead of my old man, you were there and – and it was just everything at once; the thunder and lightning and the laughter and the drowning and the fear just blended together. I panicked. I ran. I’m sorry,” he sobs.

 _My old man_. The one who stubbed cigarettes on Jason’s skin and terrorized him. Something black and full of disgust coils in Bruce’s stomach. So of course he ran away. Anybody would. Bruce was just switched out with another threat. The difference was that Bruce was real.

Bruce can’t find words to comfort him and he curses at himself for this gap in his abilities. For all his training, he could, on occasion, be useless. Dick, or Alfred, would be better at this, to find the right words and connect to this child who had finally, finally reached out. He doesn’t have the words to reassure him that he wouldn’t abandon him, or that he wouldn’t be a sadistic thug who would use or beat him for his own satisfaction. Even Bruce had the words, it wouldn't matter - Jason didn't trust words.

He reaches forward and outs his palm on Jason’s back and feels the shivering breaths and hiccups. He can’t think of anything else, so he says, “After my parents died, I barely slept and when I did, it was because I was worn out. And then I had nightmares. Every time. My mother would crawl out of her grave and said she hated me. My father would die in front of my eyes and his last words would be that I shouldn’t have been born. I found my ways to cope. I managed to get by. People knew and they understood but I never talked about it like you just did. You took a big step just now. I’m proud of you. I really am.”

Jason nods, a jerking move that shakes his entire body. He wipes his face with his sleeves and Bruce takes his hand away.

“Sleep,” Bruce says. “If you wake up, I’ll still be here.” 

Jason nods again and pulls the duvet tighter around his shoulders.

For the sake of his nose, Bruce folds his pillow in half so that he’ll lie with his head higher. He turns to his side and watches Jason as his breathing calms and his body slowly relaxes.

No, Batman won’t patrol tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a happy holidays <3 And a Happy New Year!


	17. Third time's the charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason had, for some idiotic reason, told Mr. Wayne about his dream without really meaning to and like his crying, once he started he couldn’t stop until he was finished. Fucking embarrassing.
> 
> And then Mr. Wayne had said those words again. I’m proud of you.

JASON

Wednesday

16 days in the Manor

 

Jason dozed off a little but he didn’t completely fall asleep. A headache throbbed around his temples and behind his eyes, keeping him awake. It was embarrassing how much he cried, and in front of other people to boot because crying showed weakness, he knew that perfectly well, it was a lesson Willis had drilled into him – yet he’d never been able to control it because once something forced itself to the surface despite his attempts to choke it down, it was like a tap had been turned on. Jason despises it. He wishes he wasn’t such a crybaby. 

Behind him, Mr. Wayne shifts. A second reason Jason didn’t fall asleep. Mr. Wayne wouldn’t kill him at least, he understands that now, but habits die hard, so he didn’t let himself fall into the deep sleep his body ached for.

While Jason stayed semi-awake, Mr. Wayne clearly didn’t have the same concerns. His snoring gave him away.

Jason had, for some idiotic reason, told Mr. Wayne about his dream without really meaning to and like his crying, once he started he couldn’t stop until he was finished. Fucking embarrassing.

And then Mr. Wayne had said those words again. _I’m proud of you_.

He turns carefully to look at Mr. Wayne next to him. The gap between them hadn’t changed. Mr. Wayne is sleeping on his left side with his left hand tucked under his folded pillow, his mouth open and eyes closed all the way. His nose still has the white band aid on it. Moonlight shines through from behind clouds in the distance, making it easy to see the traces of purple in Mr. Wayne’s face.

Jason feels a pinch of guilt over kicking him in the face but in all honesty, it didn’t bother him too much since he hadn’t broken anything and based on the scars on Mr. Wayne’s torso, he had been through far worse. In addition, it didn’t really seem to bother him that much, which Jason also found confusing. If Jason got kicked in the face he’d be pissed.

All that mattered was that Mr. Wayne didn’t react like Willis would have done.

Jason shudders. He’s getting warmed up, with the blanket and the soup and the heating pads and the duvet, but the cold hadn’t fully released him from its grip. He weighs his options back and forth for a second before he quietly pulls the duvet off (oh fuck, that’s cold!) and places his good foot to the floor.

Alright, so he couldn’t walk properly, but he could hop or at least use the front of his foot to balance himself for fuck’s sake.

While hopping using one leg would be faster, he sticks to limping to not wake up Mr. Wayne. He opens the door to the bathroom and sneaks inside, locking the door after him. Mr. Wayne wouldn’t wake up if Jason took a shower, right? Jason hopes not.

He does it as silently as possible, feeling the comfort of the warm water wash over his dirty skin and warm him all the way to his core. He stands there for a long time and thinks about how in two weeks he won’t ever have  shower like this ever again.

When done, he dries his hair off as best as he can and dresses himself in the same clothes he wore before. He feels lighter, almost, now that he’s clean and warmer.

He had noted that he had woken up in new clothes earlier, meaning they had changed his clothes…and they had seen the marks on him and somehow they didn’t care.

Quickly, he scoots back under the duvet to keep his newfound warmth that already started to fade.

Jason faces Mr. Wayne, who hadn’t changed his position since Jason got up. He’s drooling, Jason notices, and he giggles a little. Bruce Wayne the billionaire drools like the rest of the mortals. Who would’ve known?

_I’m proud of you._

He’d said it before, after the gala when Jason had thrown a stupid tantrum, and then again when Jason did Mr. Wayne’s stitches. Mr. Wayne was _proud_ of him. _Jason_ had made him proud.

Even if Mr. Wayne didn’t mean it, it didn’t even really matter now - the four syllables had etched themselves onto Jason’s mind and he feels giddy when thinks of it.

The man continues to snore loudly and the noise is atrocious but it breaks the creepy silence of the Manor and Jason takes comfort in it because while he’d much rather hear traffic or the buzzing of the city, he takes what he can get.

Mom never snored. It’d scare him sometimes, how still she would be when sleeping her high off and he’d often feel for her pulse when she slept to make sure she was still alive.

Mr. Wayne is obviously still alive, with his snoring, but Jason still places his palm on Mr. Wayne’s chest and feels the beating of a heart under his ribs.

Jason hesitates for a bit. But he had started to shiver again.

Mr. Wayne shifts a little, but stays asleep while Jason carefully wriggles closer. The man is giving off warmth like a working oven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the chapter's a little short. 
> 
> Hope everyone has had a good start in 2019!


	18. A moment to catch your breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can tell me if you had any more nightmares.”
> 
> “Know. Didn’t.”

BRUCE

Wednesday

 

Soft sunlight The clock on the nightstand says it’s ten in the morning. Bruce can afford to sleep a little more. It’s a Wednesday, but still. Lucius could handle any Wayne business and Bruce makes a mental note to give Lucius his thanks along with a proper vacation.

Sunlight peeks through the curtains and hits his face, blinding him as he squints and opens his eyes. He’s about to turn and face away from the window when he realizes there’s an unfamiliar weight on his left shoulder. Black, sloppy curls peek out from beneath the covers and Bruce lifts them to see Jason’s head on his shoulder.

He puts his hand on Jason’s forehead and pushes back some hair. His skin is warm and some relief washes over Bruce; Jason had warmed up properly and wasn’t cold and lifeless like when he found him in the woods.

Jason groans and wrinkles his nose, now exposed to harsh light instead of the comforting dark under the covers. Bruce chuckles groggily when Jason pulls the covers over his head again and turns away from the window.

“Did you sleep well?” Bruce asks and stifles a yawn.

 Jason’s response is a grunt.

“You can tell me if you had any more nightmares.”

“Know. Didn’t.”

“Do you want something to eat? Alfred will be happy to make you something.”

Jason grunts a second time, but he doesn’t show any signs of getting out of bed.

 _All right,_ Bruce thinks and shuts his eyes again. They can sleep some more. He shifts a bit and wraps one arm around Jason’s shoulder. He doesn’t protest.

***

They both drift in and out of sleep until dinnertime when Alfred pokes his head in and says that dinner will be ready soon. Bruce is already awake and he returns Alfred’s smile before the butler disappears again.

Jason has moved from almost lying on top of Bruce to his side, with his knees up to his chin. When Bruce nudges his awake, he sits up and yawns, running a hand through his hair.

“Don’t walk,” Bruce says to Jason while rubbing his eyes to get the sleepiness out of them. It had been a long time since he had slept so much. He couldn’t say he likes how sluggish he feels in the aftermath.

“Well, I can’t fly down,” Jason replies. “And I’m not gonna walk on a foot that doesn’t work. I’m gonna _hop_.” He places his good foot on the floor and stands up, keeping his balance.

Bruce stifles a laugh at the stubbornness. “I have no doubt you’re able to hop down to the kitchen, but I can offer a piggyback ride if you’d like.”

Jason grimaces and flops back onto the bed, on his back with his arms stretched out. “What’s for dinner?” 

“Mmm, I don’t know,” Bruce replies.

“I don’t know if I’m hungry,” Jason sighs. “I just wanna sleep until tomorrow.”

“You should eat something, still,” Bruce suggests.

Eventually, Bruce and Jason shuffle down to the kitchen (Jason limps a bit and reluctantly accepts Bruce’s arm for support) and the three eat while Bruce and Alfred chatter about Wayne Enterprises and the world while Jason quietly and contently listens in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some short filler chapters for now but there'll be some drama coming up... maybe...and some longer chapters... maybe...
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	19. Ripples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s going on?”
> 
> “It’s Master Jason. He’s fallen ill.”

BRUCE

Thursday

 

There are two knocks on his door that makes Bruce look up and say, “Come in.” He closes his laptop when Alfred enters with a frown and an aura of concern. “Master Bruce,” he says with a tight voice.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Master Jason. He’s fallen ill.”

Bruce quickly follows Alfred to Jason’s bedroom to find his room stuffy and overheated, accompanied by the sounds of a somewhat wheezy cough somewhere beneath the covers.

“Hey, chum.” Bruce sits down at the edge of Jason’s bed while Alfred opens the window to let some fresh air in. Jason peeks out from beneath his duvet.

“How are you doing?” Bruce puts a hand on Jason’s forehead and notes that he’s very warm and pale.

Jason blinks and squints at Bruce. “…Chum?” His voice is raspy and thin, and it makes Bruce ache.

“You’re feverish and your throat is sore. Do you have a headache? How does your body feel? Any pains?”

Jason’s response is abruptly interrupted by a violent coughing fit into his pillow while Bruce strokes his back.

“Master Bruce, a word, please?” Alfred nods him to the hall and Bruce follows, closing the door behind him.

“He’s sick, all right,” Bruce sighs. “I supposed he still wanted to just sleep this morning and that’s why he didn’t show up for breakfast.”

“Master Jason must have gotten a cold after his time in the woods two nights ago.”

Bruce grumbles in agreement and pushes the door open a smidge to see Jason now sitting up, pale and with beads of sweat on his forehead, rub his eyes with slow movements. If Bruce had gotten to him earlier and brought a coat or if he just hadn’t startled him in the first place, then-

“I know that look,” Alfred says sharply, “and I do not wish to further push your concerns… but perhaps we ought to pay a visit to Doctor Thompkins.”

Bruce frowns and meets Alfred’s worried gaze. He’s about to ask why when it clicks in place. Anyone can tell with a glance that Jason is not a prime example of physical health with his past of starvation, dehydration and the unknown amounts of broken bones and bruises. Jason has a weak body, there’s no denying that, and a cold – assuming it is a cold – could have serious consequences. What if it’s the flu, or worse; pneumonia?

“Give Leslie a call, see if there’s any possibility for her to see us today.”

***

“No.”

“Doctor Leslie Thompkins is an excellent doctor-“

“I’m not seeing some random doctor.”

“- and a trusted friend of mine. I promise she won’t call social services.”

“I don’t –“

The rest of Jason’s sentence becomes another wheezing coughing fits, which somehow sounds worse than the last.

“You might have pneumonia or the flu. It could be dangerous for you.”

“I just need sleep,” Jason rasps and buries his head back into the pillow. “I’ve handled this bullshit before.”

“Jason. Please.” _If not for yourself then maybe…_ “…as a favour to me.”

Bruce feels Jason’s forehead again and Jason sighs at the touch Bruce’s cold hand. “…’kay.”

About a half hour later, Alfred parks outside of Doctor Leslie Thompkins’ free clinic with Jason and Bruce in the back and when in the waiting room, Jason and Bruce sits down while Alfred talks to the nurse at the desk.

The waiting room is small, with the same plastic chairs lined up against the walls opposite the doctors’ offices. The walls are painted a soft pastel yellow, which is a nice change from the previous washed-out turquoise. The room smells like metal and rubber gloves mixed with disinfectant.

Jason slumps against Bruce’s shoulder, still pale and sweaty but a little more awake and alert than earlier, observing the other patients waiting with them. (Other than Jason and Bruce, there are a woman with her coughing daughter and one elderly man. Not a busy time of day, indeed.)

“How you feeling, chum?” Bruce feels Jason’s temperature again; he’s still too warm and shivering, despite the warm May weather and wearing Dick’s old coat.

“’m tired,” Jason responds weakly and Bruce thinks that that might be the understatement of the year.

“It won’t be too long before Dr. Thompkins will meet with us and when we’re done we’ll go back and you can sleep as long as you want." 

It isn’t until he’s finished with that sentence that it occurs to Bruce that Jason might not been to a doctor before. Leslie’s clinic hadn’t been here for too long and only recently begun to gain traction as a safe place in this part of the city. In addition, there is Jason’s natural distrust of strangers – especially authority figures. Despite his upbringing in poverty, he must have some medical records, right? Had Jason been born at the hospital or had his mother had a home birth? Had he ever gotten examined by a doctor when he got broken bones and colds? 

Bruce watches the older man get called in, leaving them alone with the coughing girl and her pale and just-as-sickly-looking mother. Alfred is done talking to the nurse and takes a seat at Bruce’s right.

“Dr. Thompkins will see us soon.”

Jason straightens up on Bruce’s left, making the sudden absence of warmth seem chilling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, another shorter chapter. Next time will be a bit longer one and it won't be a filler one :)
> 
> Happy Friday and thanks for reading my babes.


	20. Leslie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How are you, Leslie?”  
> “I’m as good as can be. And you, Bruce?”   
> “I’m…really not doing so bad these days, actually.”  
> “I see,” she nods in satisfaction. “And who’s this?”  
> “This is Jason,” Bruce says when Jason remains silent.

BRUCE

Thursday

 

It doesn’t take long until Leslie Thompkins calls them in to her office. Alfred resigns to waiting in the waiting room to avoid crowding, he says, quietly to Bruce, while Bruce helps Jason stand and hobble after Leslie.

When in her pristine, clean and bright office with white walls and a fake skeleton in the corner, Jason sits down in one of two chairs while Bruce and Leslie greet.

“How are you, Leslie?”

“I’m as good as can be. And you, Bruce?”

“I’m…really not doing so bad these days, actually.”

“I see,” she nods in satisfaction. “And who’s this?”

“This is Jason,” Bruce says when Jason remains silent. “He’s staying with me for the moment and we’re here because he’s fallen ill so I think it would be good with a check-up. It’s probably a cold but in all honesty, I don’t like his coughing so I want to be sure it’s not anything more serious. And he has a cut on his foot as well and I want to make sure it’s healing properly.”

Leslie eyes Jason with a frown, glancing across his face and soaking in the visible symptoms as well as the coughs Jason half-heartedly tried to suppress. It lingers on Bruce’s tongue, that he wants Leslie to tell him in details exactly how bad shape Jason is in, but it goes unsaid, because he knows Leslie deals with sickly children every day – specifically those who are malnourished, angry, abused and terrified.

“I’m going to ask by you some questions about your symptoms while I do the physical exam, okay?”

Jason nods.

Leslie proceeds to do a check on Jason’s throat, eyes and ears while asking for symptoms like fever (yes), headache (yes), sore throat (yes), runny nose (yes), body aches (yes), ear pain (no), lack of appetite (a little).

“How long have you had a fever?”

Jason shrugs. “Dunno. A day?”

“He was starting to show some symptoms yesterday morning but he wasn’t bedridden until today,” Bruce interjected.

“Good. A fever that’s been for more than five days is serious, so this is a good sign." 

 Leslie carries on to check Jason’s cholesterol, blood pressure and height and weight, all of which aren’t surprisingly at low, unhealthy levels.  

“Now lift up your shirt, please." 

Jason had stripped off his jacket hoodie for the weighing and hesitates a bit before peeling off his sweaty t-shirt. Bruce conceals his shudder when he sees the visible scars and the paper thin skin again. Leslie doesn’t. The only reaction Bruce gauges is her face softening a tad.

“This will feel a little cold.” Leslie takes out her stethoscope and places it on Jason’s chest. He inhales, holds his breath, exhales and coughs at her command, doing it again when she asks him to turn around and places the stethoscope on his back.

“It is an ugly cough indeed, but I this isn’t pneumonia or anything more serious. It’s a bad cold, that’s all,” Leslie says as she sits back down behind her mahogany desk and hangs the stethoscope back around her neck while Jason puts his clothes back on. She begins typing ito her computer.

Bruce rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t doubt you, Leslie, but… are you sure? He won’t need a chest x-ray?”

“Unless the coughing worsens, no, it won’t be necessary. Jason, I must ask, how many years have you been smoking?”  

Jason stiffens and Bruce turns his head slowly from Leslie Jason.

“ _Smoking_?” Bruce says, a tad louder than intended. It shouldn’t come as a shock – nicotine curbs appetite and is as common in Park Row as breathing – but it still does, somehow. It crushed the small hope that Jason had at least not been desperate enough to smoke at the ripe old age of 7.

And like everything else, Bruce hadn’t asked. He had swept it under the rug instead taken five minutes to sit down with Jason and _talk_.

Jason avoids Bruce’s stare and shrugs, “A while. But I’m not addicted, it’s just for bad days, that’s all.”

“Are you still smoking?” Leslie continues, typing into her computer, undoubtedly filling in forms and writing down details of Jason’s health. Jason shakes his head no and Bruce can’t help but think _Thank God_.

“Keep it that way,” Leslie says and pushes her glasses up her nose. “I need your full name and date of birth, please.”

Jason states both name and date of birth, which Bruce immediately takes note of. August 16th is _not_ far away.

Leslie looks from her screen to Jason with a sharp look and a frown. “Todd?”

“Uh… yeah. With two d’s.”

Leslie blinks. “Yes. Of course.” She flashes a bright and a little forced smile.

***

Jason accepts a crutch from Leslie, who helps him adjust it to his height. She had examined the wound under Jason’s food and agreed that while, yes, it was deep, it would heal just fine if Jason would be careful with putting weight on it before she changed his adhesive. While Jason returns to the waiting room, Leslie holds Bruce back and says, “Come back into my office, Bruce. I need to talk to you.” It’s a sentence that, when spoken by Leslie in _that_ tone of voice combined with _that_ stern face, sends a tingle up Bruce’s spine.

Leslie closes the door after him and gives him a glare that almost makes Bruce shrink.

“What the hell, Bruce?” Leslie crosses her arms. “What’s going on? Why is a second child living with you?”

Bruce groans weakly and rubs his neck. “I knew you would ask. It’s…complicated.”

“It’s really not, Bruce. _Explain_.”

“He’s an orphan, he needs help. That’s all. At the moment, he’s living with me until a more temporary solution comes up. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, I mean, he was homeless when I met him.”

“Bruce…”

“It’s not ideal but he trusts me, Leslie. For now, it works.”

“Does he know? About your… _crusade_?” She says the last word with a clear undertone of disgust; Leslie has never been shy about her distaste of Batman and his methods, being the pacifist she is.

“He doesn’t. He has no clue.”

“Good. The last thing needed is another child dragged into your insanity.”

Leslie uncrosses her arms and runs a hand through her hair. “Sit,” she gestures. Bruce sits in the chair he sat in earlier and Leslie sits in hers.

“First of all, about Jason’s health. It’s poor - but you already know that. He’s far too thin and short for his age and his lungs aren’t as healthy as they should be curtesy of the smoking. For the cold; make sure he gets fluids, rest and warm drinks for his throat. If you need cold medicine, you can pick up some on the counter on the way out, Nancy will give you some. Come back if his fever doesn’t go away, if his coughing gets worse or if he gains any new symptoms.” She pauses, letting Bruce take in all the information. “How is he eating?”

“I’d say his appetite is good; he loves Alfred’s cooking. He eats a lot but he doesn’t seem to gain any weight.”

“Give it some time. Make sure he eats nutritious and healthy foods and that he maintains a balanced diet. Have healthy snacks available in between meals, fruits, nuts and berries and such. Make sure he drinks enough as well. I can recommend a nutritionist and specialist if you want more details or a more thorough check-up.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Bruce declines politely, but Leslie writes down a name, number and a clinic anyway and hands it to him. Bruce brought Jason here because he trusts Leslie almost as much as Alfred so taking Jason to someone else unknown is out of the question because anyone who isn’t Leslie would take one look at Jason and call social services without giving Bruce a chance to explain. Leslie didn’t like it, but she trusted Bruce as well, and she _knew_.

“Moving on to the second issue. How is he? Mentally and emotionally, I mean.”

Bruce fiddles with the puts the note in his pocket, thinking of how to answer. Not sure of _how_ to answer.

“I noticed the scars, Bruce.” Leslie adds softly. “I can only imagine what he’s been through, being up homeless. Does he have mood swings? Nightmares? Anxiety?”

“He’s reserved, doesn’t talk much,” Bruce exhales. “Nightmares and panic attacks, yes. Mood swings, not so much. He’s adjusting.”

“Does he talk to you about any of it?”

“Recently, a little.”

“About his mother?”

Bruce blinks. “No, not specifically,” he says slowly. Leslie writes the names of two child psychologists and gives that too to Bruce who frowns. Something doesn’t add up.

“Why are you asking if he’s talking about his mother? Specifically, his mother? And your reaction to his surname earlier…it’s not like Todd is that unusual of a name for you to not know how to spell it.”

Leslie bites her lip and takes off her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose. Perhaps it’s something she shouldn’t have said but it’s a slip-up – and too late to take back. Bruce leans forward, hungry to dig up some possible answers he very much wants. “Leslie, do you know something?”

She puts her glasses back and says, “I shouldn’t – I can’t - tell you this. I have doctor-patient confidentiality, I’ll let you know.”

“Please. I’m desperate. Anything could help me help Jason.”

“I can’t-”

“Leslie, please. I’m begging you.”

Leslie sighs and runs a hand through her hair again. “Alright, but this has to stay between us. There’s a chance I could lose my license by telling you this. But if I can help that boy…”

“I swear,” Bruce says and means it. “I’m a man of my word. Nothing you say will leave this room. _Please_.”

She exhales deeply and says with a quiet and tired voice, “A few years ago, when the clinic had just opened and I had barely a handful of patients, a woman came. Just once, but it’s something that bothered me long after. I remember her pretty well because she came with a swollen wrist, multiple bruises and a black eye - clear signs of domestic abuse - and she was one of the first of the hundreds of women with the same injuries I’ve seen since. Her name was Catherine. Catherine _Todd_. When I was done wrapping her wrist and treating her eye, she told me she had some lumps in her left breast. Of course, I didn’t – and still don’t -  have the equipment needed for a mammogram so I told her I could send her to a better equipped facility, but she didn’t want to. Said she didn’t have any money or health insurance. She walked out of the clinic and I never saw her after that. I don’t know what happened to her. Until now, I suppose. It’s a slim chance she’s Jason’s mother but this is Gotham, after all. More obscure things happen every day.” 

It takes Bruce a minute before he manages to speak. Hundreds of questions swirls around in his brain, one more important than the next. Jason had admitted his mother had passed so Bruce had made it a goal to figure out as much as he could about Jason’s background and he had understood whatever he might find out would be bleak and harsh and grim - but it’s still a knife in his gut, twisting.

Jason’s possible mother – Catherine – had suffered pain and tragedies, one after another. The domestic abuse, previously only suspected, had now been confirmed for Catherine, and by proxy, officially, for Jason, and that, combined with the poverty and possibility of breast cancer without money to even get it confirmed and the desperation and hopelessness must’ve driven her to seek solace or relief or both in drugs.

A sadness and uncontrollable ache for this woman in what could only be described by Bruce as a horrifying and hopeless situation weighs a thousand pounds.

The detective and hardened realist in Bruce’s head says, ‘Now the question is, did she actually die of an OD? Or did the cancer get her and the drugs just made it look like an OD, making it simply a coincidence?’

“I didn’t know she had a son,” Leslie says solemnly. “God, I can’t even imagine how he’s feeling.” She looks at Bruce with sorrowful eyes.

Bruce wipes his own with his sleeve. “No. I can’t either.”

“But, Bruce…I have to ask – it’s my duty to ask: Why haven’t you called social services? Jason is an orphan, he should be at an orphanage, getting the help he needs from people with experience with these children like him.”

Bruce whips his head up. “I have experience,” he protests sharply. “I took care of Dick since he was 8, didn’t I?”

“Dick was your ward and he was different and you know that. I’ve been with Jason for five minutes and I can tell already, they’re _not_ the same _–“_

“That’s not fair.”

“ – and you have to call social services.”

“He is my responsibility!” Bruce stands up so quickly the chair he sat on falls to the floor with a loud clatter. He’ll be damned if he loses Jason now after finally getting him to open up.

“You’re not his legal guardian, Bruce!” Leslie shoots up too. “What you’re doing is called kidnapping! Give me one reason I shouldn’t pick up that damn phone when you leave my office.”

“He trusts me,” Bruce growls. “That sure as hell counts for _something_.”

Leslie takes a second to collect herself, to calm down. “I know you see yourself in him and I know you want to protect him but this isn’t the way to go about it. I understand you care for him but you have to think what’s best for him as well. He is not a tool for you to use to fill your void.”

“What’s best for him right now is to be safe with someone he _trusts_ and he trusts _me_. I made a promise to him and I have no intention of breaking it. And there are absolutely no guarantees social services is the best for him because we both know how dirty and corrupted child protective services can be. You should know that better than anyone.”

Leslie blinks, slightly taken aback. “Yes, I do know,” she admits, and Bruce doesn’t want to feel guilty but he still does, reminding her of all the horrific things she must’ve seen as a doctor. He continues, “Look, I made a deal with him that he’d stay with me for a month and I still have 17 days left. I swore I’d think of some solution for him that would make everyone happy, so until then, just…please.”

“Fine.” Leslie throws her hands up. “Fine. But the second those 17 days are up and you haven’t figured something out, I will intervene.”

Bruce exhales in relief. “That’s all I ask.”

It isn’t until after Bruce says goodbye to Leslie and exits her office that it strikes him that if Catherine was indeed Jason’s mother and she had cancer, she might not have told him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I'm not American and I don't know how doctor's visits works and there wasn't much I could find about it online because, shockingly, not many people share their visits to the doctor in explicit details online.   
> (I also found out you can't just drop by your doctor, you have call ahead and make an appointment two-three days ahead? What?).   
> I had to take some liberties and base this around my own experiences going to the doctor so please forgive any and all inaccuracies. 
> 
> I could just skim over this and just pull a one sentence summary like "at Leslie's, Bruce found out x and y..." but that wouldn't be fun.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	21. It comes in threes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They all have a lot to think about.

BRUCE

Thursday

 

He sees Jason with his new, old and worn crutch, a runny nose, eyes a little blank and distant and his face a little pale. Bruce buys some cold medicine he doesn’t really need from Nancy the sweet clerk, really just to buy himself a minute more to think.

_Jason doesn’t know. Or?_

He gives them a smile and asks, “Ready to go?” 

Jason doesn’t need an arm to lean on walking back to the car.

Bruce sighs and watches the grey landscape and Gothamites scurrying for lunch dates glide by. At home awaits a conversation he can’t shy away from anymore, one he doesn’t look forward to in the slightest. He thinks of the things he used to do when he would have the hard conversations with Dick, when Dick wanted to talk about his nightmares, his parents, the good memories or a scary and stressful patrol. Show hands, be relaxed, make some small talk to ease the tension, offer something to eat or drink, be understanding and don’t raise his voice. More or less the same he’s been doing at every conversation with Jason.

If he could just confirm her name, then that’d be enough. If he could just get her name, he could take it from there.

He discreetly glances over at Jason who is looking out the window at his own side. Bruce can wait until the boy isn’t sick anymore at least.

Oh, yes, and the smoking. He’ll have to address that too.

 

***

JASON

Thursday

17 days in the Manor

 

Mr. Wayne smiles standoffishly when he greets them after exiting the doctor’s office and he buys pills at the counter from the woman with a scowl and a mole on her cheek. Jason grimaces internally. If Mr. Wayne’s gonna start popping pills then it’d be easier to avoid him during the days he actually was around. Then Jason feels a small flush of guilt for thinking that. He likes Mr. Wayne more than he used to. He hopes Mr. Wayne won’t start taking pills.

“Ready to go?” Mr. Wayne asks, still weird in the face.

When they’re settled in the car and about to pull out, Jason puts his seatbelt on when he sees two familiar and unexpected faces step out of a parked Toyota across the street.

Sami and Jo looks like they did the last time he saw them but also not; they don’t have smudges in their faces and they’ve gotten haircuts, making them look younger and not like gutter trash. Their new clothes are fresh and clean. A woman with a bun and glasses and a white shirt and a brown blazer and a matching pencil skirt follows them and they speak and Sami points at the clinic. The woman has a name tag and a shoulder bag with papers sticking out of the opening. Social worker. Sami and Jo and a social worker are crossing the street to the clinic Jason just exited. They’re talking, chattering, and Sami says something that makes the lady and Jo laugh.

Jason’s glued to the sight until he can’t turn his head anymore and they disappear as the car turns to the right. Gears churn in his head and it doesn’t make sense until he turns forward and catches the butler’s grey eyes in the rear-view mirror.

A familiar humiliation and disappointment spreads from Jason’s gut. How fucking stupid he had been.

 

***

ALFRED

Thursday

 

He asked Master Jason how it went and he replied that everything was fine, and then they both fell silent until Master Bruce came out of Dr. Thompkins’ office some minutes later. Alfred frowned; something was off but it wasn’t the time nor place to ask about it. Later.

Now they’re sitting in the car, getting ready to drive home. Alfred puts the keys in the ignition and starts driving out of the parking spot when he sees them in the corner of his eye and then in his rear-view mirror; the children he had only met once in an abandoned building on Peaches Street, and Mrs. Lorentz, following them.

His first reaction is satisfaction and joy that Mrs. Lorentz had taken his e-mail seriously and successfully persuaded the children to come with her, to food and medicine and proper shelter.

Master Jason, too, sees them and the realization dawns upon him when he faces Alfred.

Master Jason _knows_. Undeniable shame and guilt numbs Alfred and he can’t do anything but look away.

Tomorrow, he’ll explain. If Master Jason loathed him after then it would be his full right to do so. For now, he has a cold to recover from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh yes. Short chapter. I'm going to admit there's not so much left of this part of the series. Not many more "big" things coming up and I'm struggling a bit to make the pieces come into place. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	22. Alfred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he hears footsteps and voices speaking unintelligibly, he holds his breath and hopes for them to pass quietly. They don’t. The butler’s footsteps come closer and the door opens to Jason’s left.
> 
> “Master Jason,” he hears in pitch a tad higher in normal that makes Jason almost grimace. “I was not aware you were here.”
> 
> Yeah, well, I didn’t fucking announce it, Jason almost says.

JASON

Saturday

19 days in the Manor

 

After returning to kinda-okay-Manor turned hell Manor, Jason went to bed, mostly just to avoid the butler and annoying-as-shit glances Mr. Wayne gave him. In addition, he got a headache and became quite sensitive to light, so he curled beneath the covers to sleep, away from the world and pity-looks, only getting up to much on whatever the butler had left at the nightstand.

Now it’s Saturday and Jason’s feeling way, way better now. His voice is still a little raspy and his nose is still running but the fever, the headache and the violent coughing is gone.

Jason’s in the kitchen, sipping a golden, steaming liquid in a white mug he’s holding. Before, tea was just a drink snobs drank from expensive and fragile China cups with pinkies out but after coming here he had a newfound appreciation for it. After getting sick, the butler had ensured lemon tea with honey in it had been available at all times and Jason drank it to soothe his scratchy throat.

Outside, the sun is almost gone behind the woods and if it wasn’t for the thick blanket of clouds and smog, Jason thinks one might be able to see glimpses of stars against the dark blue.

The clock on the wall shows it’s nine o’clock so it shouldn’t be long until Mr. Wayne and the butler disappears the place Jason had long since stopped trying to figure out where was. Jason’s remaining dollars was still on illegal fight club though. They didn’t say anything and Jason is more than happy to pretend he doesn’t know anything.

When he hears footsteps and voices speaking unintelligibly, he holds his breath and hopes for them to pass quietly. They don’t. The butler’s footsteps come closer and the door opens to Jason’s left.

“Master Jason,” he hears in pitch a tad higher in normal that makes Jason almost grimace. “I was not aware you were here.”

 _Yeah, well, I didn’t fucking announce it,_ Jason almost says.

“I could make you something if you are craving something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jason replies stiffly and it’s not actually lie this time - they ate dinner not long ago and Jason had mostly picked his food and The older man sighs and says firmly, “I will peel some apples, then. And please, sit. There is something I wish to talk to you about.”

Jason sits in front of the kitchen island, listening to the familiar and rhythmic knife hitting the cutting board as the butler slices the apples into boats. They were in the same situation not long ago and Jason had fallen asleep back then after closing his eyes and pretending it was Mom in their old kitchen, humming along to the radio.

The butler puts a small plate of apple slices in front of Jason and sits down next to him.

Jason isn’t really hungry, but a boat gives him an excuse to not look up and keep his hands busy. He munches on it while the butler speaks. It’s sweet and juicy and crunches between his teeth.

“I will speak frankly because contrary to your beliefs, neither I or Master Bruce look down on you. I am eternally honoured you confided in me when we went out together and you took initiative to care for those children. For that you have my utmost admiration. And so I hope you understand that even though I made that promise to you to not tell anyone, I also had a moral obligation to ensure the safety of those children – so I contacted one of the employees of the orphanages Master Bruce owns and I hadn’t heard from her until I saw them together after leaving the clinic.”

The butler pauses. Jason picks up a second boat and takes a bite of that too.

“I do apologize for breaking the promise I made, but I do not regret it. The only thing I do regret is not telling you about it right away. You deserved to hear the truth immediately. If you are upset or angry with me for my actions, I fully understand that and I will not blame nor be angry with you.”

The butler folds his hands, waiting to hear Jason’s reply. Jason twirls a third slice between his fingers.

“…I’m not angry,” Jason confesses eventually.

“You’re not?”

“I mean… I _am_ but not at _you_. It was inevitable, I guess. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”

“You have piqued my curiosity. Are you upset with yourself?”

“Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”

“Alright. I shall not push the subject, but one last thing, if you don’t mind. When we spotted the children with Mrs. Lorentz when we were leaving the clinic, would you say they looked unhappy?”

Jason shakes his head slowly. Sami and Jo didn’t look sad or angry or scared at all. They were laughing.

“I think I’ll leave it there then.” He has an expression Jason can't quite place.

The old man stands up, puts a gentle hand on Jason’s shoulder as he passes and gives it a squeeze, and Jason knows the butler is genuinely sorry and that there wasn’t malice in his intentions.

Jason stumbles in trying to find out what to say; he hadn’t had many apologies directed towards him in his life, so he blurts out, “Your Shakespeare section is messed up.”

The butler blinks and tilts his head. “Excuse me?”

 “No, no, I-I just finished Romeo and Juilet, and I wanted to read King Lear but I can’t find it so - so I guess my question is do you not have any more Shakespeare or is it just misplaced because it’s not on the same shelf and that’s weird because it’s organized alphabetically. I don’t mean to insinuate you’re disorganized or - or that your library sucks or anything… it’s just that I can’t find it,” he finishes lamely

“You read Shakespeare at such a young age?”

“Yeah…it’s now or never, right?”

“I suppose so,” the older man says solemnly. “But to answer your question; I have the rest of the works of Shakespeare in my bedroom. Master Bruce is not one for classic literature so I took the liberty of moving the Shakespeare collection to my bedroom to re-read. Unfortunately, I have only gotten through Othello so far and not found time for the rest I’m afraid.”

“He doesn’t read Shakespeare? Who has a library that big and doesn’t _read_?” Jason grimaces in poorly hidden disgust which makes the butler laugh heartily.

“I must admit I have wondered the same things myself, Master Jason. I shall put the collection back on the shelf for you immediately – King Lear, Othello, Macbeth, Hamlet, The Tempest and Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s a rather small collection if I say so myself.”

“Do you need help carrying?” Jason offers, eager to get his hands on these treasures and because he wants to be useful, even in the smallest way.

“I accept that offer, thank you. That is very nice of you. And please – call me Alfred.”

The butler – Alfred’s – smiles when Jason gets off his stool and follows him while munching on the third piece of apple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One conversation down, one to go.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	23. Wounds reopen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think it’s time we have a talk. And it’s not going to be a comfortable one,” he says when he takes a seat opposite Jason. He favours his right leg and has bandages on his forearm, which Jason briefly spots beneath the sleeve.
> 
> Mr. Wayne folds his hands thoughtfully and continues, “I was thinking that I should get to know a little more about you.”
> 
> “Uhm, okay…why?”

JASON

Sunday

20 days in the Manor

 

Jason remembers Willis and the other motherfuckers he’d seen in the streets blindly beating, kicking, betraying and taking as they pleased, and what he’d read in the newspapers; teachers, priests and social workers arrested for abusing and raping children and distributing child pornography. Cops, free to do whatever, backed up by the rest of the GCPD.

 _You can’t trust people for shit. You fucking can’t_ , he repeats to himself to talk over the part that reminds him of the people who had been kind to him in one way or another; mom, Alfred, Batman, Honey, Miss Kyle, the doctor and Mr. Wayne.

After helping Alfred with carrying down the Shakespeare collection, Alfred had scurried away to assist Mr. Wayne while Jason had lingered in the library to read until he fell asleep.

 

*** 

Like a cat, Jason lounged in one spot in the library all day, hogging what had now grown to be his favourite chair. At noon, Alfred joined him, serving a cup of Earl Grey and a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and they ended up chatting. 

Now it’s evening again, and Mr. Wayne approaches him.

“I think it’s time we have a talk. And it’s not going to be a comfortable one,” he says when he takes a seat opposite Jason. He favours his right leg and has bandages on his forearm, which Jason briefly spots beneath the sleeve.

Mr. Wayne folds his hands thoughtfully and continues, “I was thinking that I should get to know a little more about you.”

“Uhm, okay…why?”

“I think it could help me understand you a little bit better and maybe even help me come up with a plan for where you should stay when you’re leaving here.”

Jason resists rolling his eyes; as if he’s going anywhere but back to the slum. _All right,_ Jason thinks, _I’ll entertain this_.

 “Ok, what do you want to know?”

“I’ll cut to the chase. Could you tell me about your parents?”

Jason freezes, before his the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth fades. “No.”

“I want to know and it could help me understand.”

“I don’t want to talk about anything. Fuck off.”

Mr. Wayne sighs. “Jason, I know your father was a criminal and your mother was an addict-“

“You already know everything then. _How_?” Jason’s mind goes haywire for a second; he hadn’t said anything - he bastard must’ve researched him like a science project behind his back.

“I put together the pieces,” Mr. Wayne says, unfazed, which only pisses Jason off more. “But there are still things I want to know. What are their names? Where’s your father? How did your mother die?”

“You dick,” Jason whispers. He’s standing now, shaking and knuckles turned white. Thoughts and memories swirl in Jason’s mind mixing with panic swelling in his chest as the walls inch closer making it harder to breathe while Mr. Wayne remains unreadable and calm, only tilting his head slightly and it’s not fair that he gets to be so calm while Jason feels his heart burn and he craves to do something to break the suffocating silence in this goddamn hell house and mom’s in the corner of his eye and this house is a coffin and it’s too much -

_Why are these questions coming up Willis shouted a lot Catherine barely ate I hid what’s the agenda have I done something wrong Mr. Wayne will know how weak I used to be Mr. Wayne will hate me Willis used to smell like beer and why, why, why wasn’t I there that night mom needed me -_

Like a damn breaking, thoughts, memories and pain gushes out.

“Willis Todd was a fucking bastard who loved beer and hitting hard enough to break noses and he gave black eyes when there wasn’t enough beer in the fridge and when the food was bad and sometimes even for the hell of it, because I fucked up and didn’t do what he ordered and because he didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. Should I get into the details of how he even tried to kill me? When I was three he was holding me in a chokehold up against a wall and I almost blacked out and then – then the bastard hangs himself in jail years later so there’s a fucking punchline for you!” Jason’s shouting now, coming close to hysterics.

“And you want to know about my mom too, huh? She – Catherine, was her name, by the way, you nosy _prick_ \- worked three jobs and was stuck in a household with an asshole for a husband and weakling bastard son who never paid her back for everything she did except for enabling her high on a daily basis and leaving her to overdose alone on the bathroom floor because he was too busy stealing bread! I just left her and I _still_ haven’t gotten–“

Jason’s breath hitches and he clasps his mouth. Angry tears spill down his cheeks. He tries to stifle a sob and fails.

“Jason-“

“Should I fucking go on!?” he screams. “Do you want to know about the times I used to hide when they fought? That I actually learned closing wounds from those times dear old dad brought friends home with bullets in them? That I stopped going to school when I was seven because if I wasn’t there all the time then mom would die - which she did, by the way, because I couldn’t stop screwing things up! And this isn’t even any of your god _damn_ business so fuck you!”

Jason gasps uncontrollably for air. He’s gonna die this time, he’s sure of it, because he can’t breathe and his heart’s gonna explode out of his chest. He fumbles on the arm of the chair he was sitting in as he staggers backwards, sinks to his knees and clutches his heart in a desperate attempt to make it stop beating so fast.

“I can’t – I can’t – “

Something - some _one_ big and warm engulfs him and holds him tightly. Too weak and tired to do anything else, Jason succumbs to the warmth and gentle touch, clutching fistfuls of fabric.

“It’s okay, I’m here. I got you.” Mr. Wayne murmurs softly.

“I wasn’t there,” Jason sobs into his shirt. “I wasn’t there, _I wasn’t there_.”

“It’s not your fault. It was never your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No,” Jason sobs, “no, no, you don’t get it, it’s all my fault, it – everything –“

Mr. Wayne shushes him softly. “It was never your fault. Just breathe.”

Bruce holds Jason close and shushes him for a long time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy friday :)


	24. Profile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce takes a sip of his coffee and clicks away all the reports, files, mugshots and pictures of evidence and opens up a new file. He titles it ‘Todd, Jason. P’, and begins typing.

BRUCE

Sunday

Bruce closes the door to Jason’s bedroom. He had stayed with Jason, reassuring him that he was safe, that he wasn’t going to die and that Bruce wasn’t going to leave him for a while, and when Jason had begun breathing normally again, Bruce had let Jason cling to him for as long as he needed, letting him gather himself before Bruce asked him if he was tired and going to sleep was a viable option. It was. Bruce scooped Jason up, carried him upstairs and stayed with him until he fell asleep.

He picks up a cup of coffee on his way down to the cave and sips it mindlessly as he descends the steps. The bats flutter as he makes his presence known and the sound of leathery wings are calming and familiar to Bruce. The cave, with its darkness, purpose and trophies had started to feel more home to him than the disguise above it.

Catherine and Willis Todd. Now that he knows their names, it doesn’t take long to find their files and mugshots of both of them.

Willis Todd, with dark blonde hair and red face from heavy drinking, was a small time thug and petty criminal who had been in and out of custody since his late teens. His criminal record consisted of drug dealing, armed robbery, assaulting police officers and a bank robbery gone wrong – the latter had landed him in Blackgate after being found guilty and receiving a sentence of 6 years. Four months into his sentence he was found dead in his cell, ruled suicide by hanging. No mentions, arrests or charges on spousal battery.

Catherine Todd, maiden name unknown, had only been taken into custody once or twice for drug possession in her late teens. Found dead in her two-room apartment after overdosing on heroin. So at the very least, the phantom cancer didn’t do it. Her most recent mugshot was from when she looked to be early 20s, and showed Bruce a woman with light blonde hair (dyed, based on the darker roots), pale brown eyes and lips twisted in a drunken smirk to the camera. It seemed Jason inherited her tan skin tone and nose; straight and a little pointy. Jason had Willis’ eyes, but more innocent and not as hollow.

Bruce sighs and runs a hand through his hair, remembering the meltdown Jason had had earlier. He had prepared himself for every possible reaction; getting cussed out, panic attack, running away (again), hide away somewhere. Mostly he had been nervous Jason would shut off completely, reverting back to square one.

Then, Jason had crumbled, more than Bruce had anticipated. It was, what, the third, fourth time Jason had panicked in front of him? Or rather, it was the third or fourth time he had panicked  _because_  of him.

Bruce has tried to come up with suitable solutions for Jason when he leaves and the best one he had come up with was to send Jason to an orphanage owned by Wayne Incorporated so that Jason would be safe and so that Bruce could monitor the social workers, Jason’s whereabouts and his daily activities. Not to mention, visiting and contacting Jason would certainly be easier if he was the boss of the people who worked there. A second option is to send him to a place like Ma Gunn’s School for Wayward Boys, which specialized in cases such as Jason’s: orphaned or runaway boys with struggles to adapt to society which doesn’t sit quite right with Bruce; he sours on the idea of sending Jason to a place that almost prides itself in being in an institution. Ultimately, he have to discuss this with Jason to see what he wants.

Bruce takes a sip of his coffee and clicks away all the reports, files, mugshots and pictures of evidence and opens up a new file. He titles it ‘Todd, Jason. P’, and begins typing.

 _‘Jason Todd is a young boy (aged 10) who has experienced physical and emotional abuse, neglect, starvation, dehydration, isolation and homelessness_ (reminder: there might be more, must follow up on details when possible _) at the hands of his parents and time spent as a homeless, which has resulted in psychological trauma with symptoms pointing to anxiety disorder and PTSD._

(Reminder: make sure Jason sees appropriate professionals to get proper diagnosis. Make sure hands are visible when approaching him and that I do not raise my voice at him) _._

_Jason has expressed extreme guilt over his mother’s death - survivor’s guilt and feelings of responsibility. Has called himself her ‘enabler’ for not stopping her drug habits that eventually ended her life. His feelings of responsibility has made him save up money to buy a gravestone for her – a means to cope with the guilt and to say a proper goodbye._

_Jason suffers frequent panic attacks. Triggers include, but is not limited to, topics such as his parents, especially his mother, physical threats, nightmares and stressful and/or unexpected situations. He has had multiple panic attacks since we met. It is very likely that he has suffered the attacks for a long time._

_Starvation and lack of nourishment has made Jason extremely attentive to food, even going to as far as almost overeating several times. When running away, he took perishables with him_. (Reminder: have perishables available, it may help Jason feel safer).  _He is still very malnourished and thin. As per Doctor Leslie Thompkins’ orders, he will be given food with high nutrition and snacks such as fruits and nuts should be available at all times. It will take a while before he gains weight. The malnourishment will undoubtedly have negatively affected his growth and height in some way._

(Reminder: make sure whomever he stays with in the future is aware of his needs when it comes to food. If he goes to a foster home/orphanage, I should personally ensure this.)

_Socially, it seems he prefers to be blunt when conversing, but is often hesitant to do so – fear of overstepping and my reaction? Curses a lot. (I suspect his favourite word – at least his most used word - is ‘fuck’. I have to admit, as much as he swears, I find it, for a lack of a better word, adorable)._

_Jason has shown traits such as kindness, bravery and loyalty by offering to help Alfred with chores, as well as defending and helping people in trouble (such as the prostitute known as ‘Honey’, and assisting me in solving her murder, thus closing her case). He leans towards introversion, often seeking company in literature. I find him reading quite often. When I’m away, Alfred tells me he has spent hours in the library._ (Reminder: ask Jason if there is any book or books he would like. I should get him some as a farewell present).  _It seems I may have piqued his interest in movies as well after watching The Terminator together._ (Reminder: movie nights possible after he leaves? Perhaps he can visit once a month, or maybe once a week?)

_While it may seem like Jason is a loner, I suspect the circumstances of his childhood and upbringing have resulted in underdeveloped social skills and a cautious and wary nature. However, it appears once trust, connection or common grounds is established, Jason is – to some degree - open and talkative. This is something that can still be improved, on both our behalves. I should find or research suitable topics to discuss._

_Jason has shown trust issues. Upon arriving to the Manor, he stayed out of arms reach at all times and barely maintained eye-contact. When he spoke it was often only after being spoken to first and in short sentences._

_He was also wary of food and often waited until myself or Alfred had taken the first bite, most likely suspecting poison or drugs in the food despite his past and history with starvation. Now he eats without waiting for poison/drug check._ (Reminder: make sure Jason knows the kitchen of the Manor is always open to him). _Jason has demonstrated skills with cooking. I should ask him if he wants to try to cook dinner. I should urge Alfred to accept an assistant in the kitchen, regardless whether or not he actually needs one._

_After spending time together and having meals together, he is less guarded, in the very short span of three weeks. Based on my own personal observations, he has a subconscious desire for human connection and company, as shown by his progression and willingness to uphold his part of his deal with me, despite his previous pattern of distrust._

_Still, I do not think he trusts me fully and completely. For example, the boxes of his personal items are still unboxed despite him living here for almost a month. I hope this will improve in the foreseeable future. In the short time we have spent together, I find myself very protective of him and attached far beyond my predictions. I will do my best to ensure his safety in the future. I will miss him._

Bruce types the last sentence without meaning to, and when he realizes, he stares at the words for a long time as they sink in. Maybe it had always swirled in the back of his subconscious, maybe he had pushed it aside for a long time because he simply didn’t _want_ to acknowledge it - but it’s undeniable now. Bruce doesn’t want Jason to leave. 

Bruce's breath hitches when he recognizes the want that had been gnawing at his mind these past weeks. It's bigger than the moral responsibility he took upon himself and accepted when he made that deal with Jason. It's more than Bruce wanting and trying to help a citizen in need. He has become Jason's guardian and the closest thing he currently has to any parental figure, and losing Jason now means losing a joy and warmth Bruce hadn't felt in a long time. 

Losing Jason now means that Bruce will become alone again. He can't let that happen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on vacation right now and I honestly didn't know if I would be able to upload today, hehe. I have exams in a month so I'm not sure how my upload schedule will be for the next month but I'll try my best to stick with it even though there'll be shorter chapters again. 
> 
> Happy Easter y'all.


	25. Brilliant blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How unusual to see you out in the sunshine, sir. Finally, I can stop wondering whether or not that theory that says Batman’s a vampire is true,” Alfred comments dryly from where he stands, leaves falling around his feet.
> 
> “I like that theory. Makes it easier to scare.”
> 
> “By God, sir, did you display signs of a sense of humour? The end is nigh.”

Bruce

Monday

 

Bruce might have procrastinated by spending Monday morning sending emails and talking to people on the phone regarding important matters instead of eating scrambled eggs and bacon with Jason and Alfred. It might have been a strategic choice to wait approaching Jason until after he had eaten. Maybe.

He knocks twice and waits three seconds before opening the door. He expects Jason to lie or sit in bed with a book or with his headset on, which is why he’s surprised to see Jason sprawled out on the carpeted floor with his thin, gangly limbs stretched out. The window is opened wide and a soft spring breeze makes the curtains dance back and forth.

Bruce planned to ask: “Could I talk to you?” and then Jason would hopefully reply “Yes,” but in surprise, he instead asks, “Why are you on the floor?”

Jason replies, “The bed’s too soft. I can’t get used to it.”

Bruce sits down on the floor next to Jason, back to the end of the bed and peeks out the window. It’s bright and sunny outside, very few clouds in the sky. The chirps of house sparrows and evening grosbeaks can be heard in the distance.

“It’s beautiful weather today,” he points out. “Maybe you’d want to go outside? We got ice cream in the freezer.”

Jason gives a half-hearted scoff and smiles weakly. “I just want to be alone right now. Maybe later.” He turns away from Bruce and pulls his knees up to his chest. 

“If I’m being honest with you, I didn’t come up here to offer you ice cream. I mean it’s in the kitchen if you want some, but I wanted to talk to you about yesterday. I want to apologize.”

“That’s getting old,” Jason mutters. “I get it; you had some vague reasons, you feel bad and now you want to say you’re sorry. And it’s fine, really. I just want to be alone right now, so just -” he gestures to the door.

Bruce shifts, feeling oddly pleased by the fact that Jason had mildly told him off. Then the question is: should he leave and wait until later to talk to Jason or stay and hope for the best? Bruce decides for the former. “I’ll skip the apologies, then. However, there are still some things I want to say, and I hope you’ll listen. I’ll leave right after. Is that OK?" 

Jason sighs and sits up next to Bruce. “If you leave right after.”

Bruce chuckles. “Swear. I, uh, know you know this but when I was eight, my parents died. It happened late night after we saw a rerun of The Mark of Zorro, one of my father's favourite movies. When we were finished, I was tired and wanted to go to bed. To get to the car faster,  they decided to take a shortcut through the alley now called Crime Alley, instead of walking around the block. In that alley, we met Joe Chill, who pulled a gun and demanded his wallet and my mother's pearls. My father was shot first. Then my mother. She died immediately. My father didn't." 

“I didn’t know you were there,” Jason says quietly. "I just heard about _them_."

“It happened years, decades, before you were born. It's not as covered now as it used to be, I suppose."

“This is _Gotham_. Something crazy happens every day."

Bruce chuckles and takes a breath. “What I’m trying to say is…I watched my parents get shot and killed right before my eyes. I had the power to intervene and stop it but I didn’t, which is something I have regretted and struggled with for the past 22 years. To have that burden and self-loathing is not something I want for you. I have almost let it destroy me and only recently I’ve started to let go of that guilt, bit by bit.” He puts his hand on Jason’s and squeezes gently. “I want you to promise me that you will try to start forgiving yourself. It’ll take time and it’ll be difficult, so it doesn’t have to be today or tomorrow, but please promise me that you’ll start trying.”

Jason clenches his jaws in silence. With blank eyes he nods once which is enough for Bruce to take his hand around Jason’s shoulders and pull him into a side hug.  

“As promised I’ll give you space now,” Bruce says after a few seconds. He stands up and leaves, closing the door after him.

When downstairs, he carries out and arranges outdoor furniture such as some sun chairs and a few tables while Alfred, already slightly red on his neck and ears, snips away at a bush with his gardening scissors. After making one final trip inside to the kitchen to get a mug of lemon iced tea with ice cubes and two glasses, Bruce settles in one of the sun chairs to enjoy some fresh air.

“How unusual to see you out in the sunshine, sir. Finally, I can stop wondering whether or not that theory that says Batman’s a vampire is true,” Alfred comments dryly from where he stands, leaves falling around his feet.

“I like that theory. Makes it easier to scare.”

“By God, sir, did you display signs of a sense of humour? The end is nigh.”

“You know, I’ve been thinking that we could do some renovations outdoors and install a pool. It’d be nice to get in a swim once in a while. I could arrange some pool parties as well.” Bruce takes a sip of his iced tea. It could be fun for Jason too. A springboard, some of those inflatable animals kids enjoyed. If he stayed, that is. If not, Bruce doubts he’ll make a move on the pool idea. He’ll have to check his mails later this afternoon to see what his lawyers said.

The sound of music from behind him interrupts his train of thoughts and Alfred’s attack on a particular overgrown shrub. Jason squints at the sunlight, portable kitchen radio and three popsicles in hand. He stops next to Bruce and sets the radio next to Bruce’s iced tea.

“I didn’t know what flavor, so I grabbed three different ones. Orange, cola and whatever the hell blue raspberry is. Pick one?”

Bruce picks the cola-flavoured. Jason offers to Alfred, who accepts the orange popsicle.

“I’ve never tasted blue raspberry before,” Jason says and slumps down in the chair next to Bruce. “Is it just raspberry but with blue colouring?”

“It’s a common flavour for candy, snacks and soft drinks,” Bruce starts explaining and unwraps his cola-popsicle. “Food with blue raspberry flavour does contain blue food colouring and-“

“Master Bruce, please wait with the chemistry lecture until I'm done with my break,” Alfred comments dryly.

“No, keep going, it’s interesting” Jason says, looking at Bruce with attentive eyes.

Bruce laughs at Alfred’s horror and the not-so-subtle whisper of “Good Lord, of all topics…”

“Ok, well, the most common food colouring is called Brilliant Blue FCF, an organic compound classified as dye made of triphenyl methane which acts as a skeleton for many dyes. Triphenyl methane is used for dye in many food groups and is made by…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been travelling for a while and completely neglecting my writing lately so this chapter was finished literally right before posting, which is bad because I usually pre-write chapters weeks before posting. No editing, we die like grammatically incorrect fools.
> 
> My exam season is coming up so I don't know how active I'll be with writing but I'll try to keep up my schedule. I can say that the next chapter has been one I've been wanting to write for a long, long time. Hopefully I'll do it justice. 
> 
> Happy friday and thanks for reading <3


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